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PR  1109  lb  1889 

...         .M  Ml' I II  II  III 


3   1822  01018   1253 


JANE    ROWLEY'S 


SCRAP     BOOK 


SIXTY  YEARS'  GLEANINGS, 


Secant!  3Eoitton. 


BOSTON: 
Press  of  Coburn  Brothers. 


COPYRIGHT, 

1888, 

BY  JANE  ROWLEY. 


T  % 

ml 


Mr.  Editor: 

In  giving  to  the  public  the  gleanings  of 
sixty  years,  I  feel  as  if  I  was  parting  with  an 
old  friend,  but  if  they  enjoy  the  reading  as  I 
have  the  compiling,  I  shall  be  amply  rewarded 
for  my  trouble. 

JANE  ROWLEY. 


POETRY. 

Oh  !    poetry,  source  of  purest  delight, 

That  can  best  breathe  the  feelings  most  dear  to  the  heart ; 
That  soul  is  involved  in  the  darkness  of  night, 

Which  proves  not  the  pleasure  'tis  time  to  impart. 

The  calm  light  of  friendship,  the  warm  glow  of  love. 
Thro'  thee  most  expressively  speak  to  the  soul ; 

And  the  sad  tale  of  pity  most  deeply  can  move 

"When  thy  voice  o'er  our  feelings  exerts  its  control. 

Then  here  by  thy  gems  as  in  memory's  store, 
Preserved  by  the  fostering  protection  of  taste. 

I  will  sweetly  beguile  a  lone  hour  to  explore 
The  gems  that  we  thus  have  laid  carefully  past. 

Nor  here  while  more  noble  productions  we  nurse, 
Let  the  feelings  of  an  humbler  muse  be  forgot ; 

But  let  them  be  cherished  whatever  their  source, 

In  the  Scrap  Book  preserved  from  oblivion's  dark  lot. 


To  every  trifle  scorn  to  take  offence, 

It  shows  much  pride  or  little  sense  ; 

Good  nature  and  good  sense  must  always  join, — 

To  err  is  human,  to  forgive,  divine.  .       , 


0»\. 


f0^f  J^AM     3  2- 


/-J' 


JANE    ROWLEYS 

THE  POLE'S  ADIEU. 

Star  of  my  soul  farewell ! 

I  go  to  war  and  danger, 
I  haste  to  meet  in  conflict  fell 

The  proud  invading  stranger. 
I  leave  thee,  love,  to  save  the  land, — 

The  land  we  dearly  cherish, 
To  break  the  link  that  binds  the  brave, 

To  rescue  or  to  perish. 

Farewell,  farewell. 

Star  of  my  soul,  thy  light 

No  more  shall  shine  before  me, 
The  flame  of  war  glances  redly  bright, 

Destruction  hovers  o'er  me  ; 
Yet  mourn  not,  love,  for  me, 

Remember,  tho'  we  sever, 
The  patriot  brave  who  falls  shall  be 

With  glory  crowned  forever. 
Farewell,  farewell. 


By  indolence,  much  is  to  be  lost,  and  there  is  but 
little  to  be  got  by  it,  and  lazy  bones  are  particularly  un- 
amiable.  Where  is  the  woman  who  can  bear  laziness  in 
a  man  whom  she  honors  with  a  place  in  her  heart. 


SCRAP   BOOK.  7 

THE  BRIDE'S  FATHER. 

The  last  kiss  is  given,  the  last  adieu  sighed, 

The  bridegroom's  away  with  his  beautiful  bride  ; 

Alone  sits  the  father,  alone  in  his  years  ! 

The  mansion  is  silent  the  old  man  in  tears. 

He  thinks  of  her  sweetness  that  soothed  every  care, 

And  he  fondly  looks  up  as  expecting  her  there, — 

Ah  !  when  was  the  time  he  such  sorrow  had  shown, 

And  she  came  not  ?  —  but  now  the  old  man  weeps  alone. 

And  could  she  remember  his  fondness,  that  threw 

Fresh  flowers  o'er  her  path,  every  moment  she  knew, 

That  granted  each  wish  her  light  heart  could  prefer, 

Who  in  the  wide  world  had  but  her  —  only  her  ? 

Oh  nature  !  how  strange  and  unfeeling  appears 

This  breaking  of  all  the  affections  of  years, 

For  one  who  a  summer  ago  was  unknown, 

Yet  that  one  has  her  heart,  —  the  old  man  weeps  alone. 

No,  not  for  a  crown  as  an  emperor's  bride, 

Had  I  quitted  a  father's  affectionate  side  ! 

I'd  think  on  his  evenings,  long,  lonely  and  dim, 

And  prize  not  a  love  »•>  unconnected  with  him  ; 

Deem'd  the  one  who'd  have  sooth'd  not  my  father's  decline, 

(How'er  he  might  love  me)  unworthy  of  mine, 

Nor  changed  the  affections  'neath  which  I  have  grown, 

Nor  left  a  fond  father,  old,  cheerless  and  lone. 

By  E.  Swain. 


S  jane  rowi.ey's 

'TIS  SWEET  TO  LOVE  IN  CHILDHOOD. 

'Tis  sweet  to  love  in  childhood,  when  the  souls  that  we 

bequeath, 
Are  baeutiful  in  freshness  as  the  coronals  we  wreathe ; 
When  we  feed  the  gentle  robin  and  caress  the  leaping 

hound, 
And  linger  latest  in  the  spot  where  buttercups  are  found ; 
When  we  seek  the  bee  and  lady-bird  with  laughter,  shout 

and  song, 
And   think  the  days  of  wooing  them  can  never  be  too 

long. 
'Tis  sweet  to  love  in  childhood,   and  though  waked  by 

meanest  things, 
The  music  that  the  heart  yields  then  will  never  leave  its 

strings. 

'Tis  sweet  to  love  in  after  years,  the  dear  one  by  our  side, 
To  dote  with  all  the  mingled  joys  of  fashion,  hope  and 

pride  ; 
To  think  the  chain  around  our  heart  will  hold  still  warm 

and  fast, 
And  grieve  to  think  that  death  will  come  to  break  that 

chain  at  last ; 
But  when  the  rainbow  span  of  bliss  is  waning  hue  by 

hue, — 
When  eyes  forget  their  kindly  beams,  and  lips  become 

untrue, — 


SCRAP    BOOK.  9 

When    stricken  hearts   are   pining   on   through  many  a 

lonely  hour, 
Who  would  not  sigh,  "  'Tis  sweeter  far  to  love  the  bird 

and  flower  "  ? 

'Tis    sweet  to  love  in  ripened  age  the  trumpet  blast  of 

fame, 
To  pant  to  live  in  glory's  scrolls,  though  blood  may  trace 

the  name ; 
'Tis  sweet  to  love  the  heap  of  gold  and  hug  it  to  our  breast, 
To  trust  it  as  the  guiding  star  and  anchor  of  our  rest ; 
But  such  devotion  will  not  serve,  however   strong   the 

zeal, 
To    overthrow   the  altar  where  our    childhood    used    to 

kneel ; 
Some   bitter  moments    shall  o'ercast  the  sum  of  wealth 

and  power, 
And    then  proud  man  would    fain  go  back  to  worship 

bird  and  flower. 

A  woman  should  be  the  directing  power  that  sets  the 
machine  of  domestic  life  in  motion,  but  she  ought  to  be 
as  careful  that  her  influence  is  rather  felt  than  seen,  as 
a  good  watchmaker  will  exclude  from  the  sight  the 
spring  on  which  the  watch  depends. 


Silence    is  the  softest  response   for   all  the  contradic- 
tions that  arise  from  impertinence,  vulgarity  and  envy. 


IO  JANE    ROWLEY  S 

Know  ye  the  land  where  no  pain  or  sorrow 

Shall  darken  the  brow,  or  shall  bow  down  the  head, — 

Where  no  grief  of  to-day,  and  no  thought  of  the  morrow 

Shall  reach  the  glad  heart  or  appall  it  with  dread? 

Know  ye  the  land  of  the  spirit  of  peace, 

Where  the  joys  never  lessen,  the  hymns  never  cease, 

Where  the  friend  of  our  bosom  here  lost  in  the  tomb 

Shall  meet  us  again  ever  freed  from  its  gloom  ? 

Where  the  hearts  here  divided,  united  shall  rest, 

And  be  healed  of  their  woes  in  the  realms  of  the  blest, 

W^here  the  tear  shall  not  quench  the  bright  beams  of  the 

eye, 
Where  the  hope  here  destroy'd  meet  fruition  on  high, 
And  spirit  with  spirit  in  love  only  vie? 
And  the  arm  that  chastised  be  extended  to  save, 
When  the  morn  shall  arise  on  the  night  of  the  grave. 
'Tis  the  home  of  the  past,  'tis  the  region  of  truth, 
Where  her  children  shall  dwell  in  the  region  of  youth. 
Oh  !  dearer  than  aught  to  the  sorrow  worn  soul, 
Are  the  dreams  of  that  land  and  the  hope  of  that  goal. 


WOMAN. 


Some  waltz,  some  draw  ;  some  fathom  the  abyss 
Of  metaphysics,  others  are  content 
With  music,  the  most  moderate  shine  as  wits, 
While  others  have  a  turn  for  fits.  —  Byron. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  II 


THE  RIVALS. 


Two  rivals  young  and  aged  met, 

Within  the  fairy  bay, 
Where  Beauty  and  her  radiant  set 

Of  smiles  and  glances  play. 
The  one  was  Love,  so  fond  and  fair ; 
The  other  Gold,  the  millionaire. 

"  How's  this,"  cried  Gold, 

"  That  Love's  so  bold, — 
A  pirate  on  the  coast, 

Where  wealthy  I 

Have  sovereignty. 
As  beauty's  fain  to  boast  ? " 
Love  curled  his  handsome  lip  with  pride, 
Said  Gold  was  base,  and  basely  lied, 
To  which  quoth  Gold,  "  she  can't  endure 
The  beggar  Love  —  the  boy  is  poor." 
Friends  interposed,  the  duel  stay'd, 
Wisely  advising,  "  try  the  maid," 
So  bending  low  in  Beauty's  bower 
Each  ply'd  their  art  with  all  their  power. 

Love  lit  the  beacons  of  his  eyes, 

And  Beauty  blushed  for  joy  ; 
Love  whispered  burning  words  and  sighs, 

Then  beauty  kissed  the  boy. 
"  Ah,  Love,"  said  she,  "  come  weal  or  woe, 


£2  jane  row-ley's 

With  you  alone  through  life  I  go." 
The  graceful  youth 
Believed  it  truth, 

And  came  out  gay  and  bold. 
"Now,  sir,  advance." 
With  hausrhtv  "fiance 

He  said  to  scornful  Gold  ; 

Love's  yellow  rival  bent  his  knee 

To  Beauty  with  a  pedigree, 

A  casket,  carriage,  lackeys  tall, 

Soiree  and  rout,  and  frequent  ball. 

"  Oh  !  dear  Gold,"  false  Beauty  cried, 
"  I'll  jilt  fond  Love,  and  be  your  bride." 
Gold  tied  the  knot,  Love  left  the  shore, 
Now  Love  and  Beauty  meet  no  more. 


A  THOUGHT. 

I've  seen  at  early  morning's  hour, 
The  dew-drop  sparkle  on  the  flower, 
And  marked  the  sun-beam  o'er  it  play, 
Then  steal  it  to  the  skies  away. 
And  thus  I've  thought  it's  pity's  tear, 
Shed  by  us  erring  mortals  here,  — 
But  snatched  by  heaven  and  treasured  there 
With  Faith,  and  Hope,  and  Love,  and  Prayer, 

J.   J?.    Clark. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  13 

THE  MAN  I  LOVE. 

I  love  an  open  countenance, 

A  kind  and  noble  face,  — 
The  index  of  an  honest  heart 

That  loves  the  human  race  ! 
A  brow  on  which  a  smile  is  thron'd 

Like  sunlight  on  a  flower, 
As  open  as  the  regal  skies 

With  beams  of  love  and  power  ! 

I  love  the  kind  and  welcome  glance 

That  proves  we're  not  alone  ; 
And  oh  !  how  sweet  at  times  to  find 

Some  feelings  like  our  own  ! 
A  heart  that  beats  with  purest  hopes, 

To  pity  and  to  bless  ; 
That  strives  to  make  earth's  comforts  more  — 

Its  pains  and  follies  less  ! 

I  love  the  man  whose  generous  smile 

Is  given  with  his  hand, 
Who  sees  his  equal  in  all  men, 

And  all  men  equal  stand  ! 
Who  sees  not  the  distinction  made 

By  human  laws  between 
The  man  who  has,  and  who  has  not, 

But  loves  from  what  he's  seen. 


14  JANE    ROWLEYS 

I  love  the  man  whose  heart  is  true, 

Who  seldom  wears  a  frown, 
And  loves  all  men,  from  him  who  toils 

To  him  who  wears  a  crown  ! 
With  mildness  ever  on  his  lip, 

A  free  and  open  mind,  — 
A  mind  with  mental  grandeur  span'd, 

A  soul  supremely  kind. 


BENEVOLENCE. 

We  should  never  in  any  way  consent  to  the  ill  treat- 
ment of  animals,  because  the  fear  ol  ridicule  or  some  other 
fear,  prevents  our  interfering.  As  to  there  being  any- 
thing really  trifling  in  any  act  of  humanity,  however 
slight,  it  is  moral  blindness  to  suppose  so.  The  few 
moments  in  the  course  of  each  day,  which  a  man  absorbs 
in  some  worldly  pursuit,  may  be  carefully  expended  in 
kmd  words  or  trifling  charities  to  those  around  him,  and 
kindness  to  animals  is  one  of  them,  are  perhaps,  in  the 
sight  of  heaven,  the  only  time  he  has  lived  worthy  of  re- 
cording. 


He  who  first  arouses  in  the  bondsman  the  sense  and 
soul  of  freedom,  comes  as  near  as  is  permitted  to  man  — 
nearer  than  the  philosopher,  nearer  than  the  poet  —  to 
the  great  attributes  of  God. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  15 

LONG  YEARS  HAVE  PASSED. 

BY    THOMAS    MOORE. 

Long  years  have  passed,  old  friend,  since  we 

First  met  in  life's  young  day  ; 
And  friends  long  loved  by  thee  and  me 

Since  then  have  pass'd  away  ; 
But  enough  remains  to  cheer  us  on, 

And  sweeten  when  thus  we're  met, 
The  glass  we  fill  to  the  many  gone, 

And  the  few  who're  left  us  yet. 

Our  locks,  old  friend,  now  thinly  grow, 

And  some  hang  white  and  chill ; 
While  some  like  flow'rs  'mid  autumn's  snow, 

Retain  youth's  color  yet. 
And  so  in  our  hearts,  thoughts  one  by  one, 

Youth's  sunny  hopes  have  set ; 
Thank  heaven,  not  all  their  light  is  gone  — 

We've  some  to  cheer  us  yet. 

Then  here's  to  thee,  old  friend,  and  long 

Mav  thou  and  I  thus  meet 
To  brighten  still  with  wine  and  song, 

This  short  life,  ere  it  fleet. 
And  still,  as  death  comes  stealing  on, 

Let's  never  old  friend  forget, 
E'n  though  we  sigh  o'er  blessings  gone, 

How  many  are  left  us  yet. 


1 6  jane  rowley's 

MORN'S  OFFERING. 

The  prize  of  the  golden  violet,  for  the  six  verses  on  a  botanical  sub- 
ject, has,  at  length  been  awarded,  by  a  committee  appointed  at  the  Feite 
Champctre,  on  the  20th  June,  to  the  author  of  the  effusion  having  the 
above  title,  and  signed  "Francis."  The  fortunate  competitor  for  the 
second  prize  (a  book)  is  the  writer  whose  real  name  is  disguised  under 
the  fanciful  signature  —  "I  wish  I  may  get  it."  Of  the  pieces  whose 
poetical  merit  the  Committee  considered  of  a  high  order,  are  those  signed 
"  Mary,"  "  M,"  "  Alonzo,"  "  E.  L.  L."  and  "K."  The  second  prize  will 
when  received,  be  forwarded  to  the  winner.  The  following  is  the  prize 
poem : 

As  night  stole  away  from  a  wild  flowery  nook, 
And  morning  awaking,  her  dewy  wings  shook, 

A  low  silver  sound 

Was  heard  all  around  ; 

Each  leaflet  and  cup 

In  rapture  sent  up 
Its  devotion  and  love,  on  the  wings  of  the  morn, 
And  their  incense  to  God  was  triumphantly  borne. 

The  Rose  sent  her  blushes,  all  tearful  with  dew, 
The  Pansy,  sweet  thought,  ever  changeful  and  new 

The  Poppy  its  bloom, 

Sweetbriar  its  perfume, 

The  Hawthorne  sent  showers 

Of  sweet-scented  flowers, 
And  the  Daisy  its  modesty  flinging  o'er  morn, 
It  seem'd  e'en  her  glittering  charms  to  adorn. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  17 

The  Bramble,  the  moral  its  pointed  thorns  teach, 

You  must  all  feel  their  touch,  ere  its  fruits  you  may  reach. 

And  from  a  moss  bed 

Just  raising  its  head, 

The  lone,  the  forsaken 

Sweet  Primrose  awaking, 
Sighed,  "  Bear  on  thy  wings  to  the  regions  of  bliss, 
The  love  of  a  heart  that  is  slighted  in  this." 

The  Broom  sent  the  grace  that  each  motion  betrays, 
As  the  kiss  of  the  wind  every  golden  bough  sways  ; 

The  Woodbine  spread  wide 

Its  proud  arms  and  cried, — ■ 

Bear,  bear  on  thy  wing 

To  the  heavenly  king, 
The  fond  clinging  love,  —  the  rich  aspirations 
Of  a  heart  that  is,  —  that  is  breaking  in  this 

The  Harebell  its  meekness  and  purity  threw, 

And  its  colors  to  blend  with  the  heaven's  own  blue. 

Forget-me-not  flung 

Those  offerings  among 

Remembrances  soft  — 

To  be  born  up  aloft, 
To  that  home  in  the  skies,  in  whose  heavenly  bowers, 
Morn  pours  out  the  incense  of  sweet  welding  flowers. 

And  think  you  the  giver  of  life  and  of  light, 

In  the  realms  of  the  blessed,  the  pure  and  the  bright, 


iS  jane   rowley's 

Regards  not  the  sweets, 

The  balmy  air  greets, 

From  garden  and  dell 

Where  gay  flowers  dwell  ? 
Yes,  yes  !  to  his  throne  is  triumphantly  borne 
The  incense  of  flowers  on  the  wings  of  the  morn. 


THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  DEAD. 
It  is  an  exquisite  and  beautiful  thing  in  our  nature 
that  when  the  heart  is  touched  and  softened  by  some  tran- 
quil happiness  or  affectionate  feeling,  the  memory  of  the 
dead  comes  over  it  most  powerfully  and  irresistibly. 
It  would  almost  seem  as  though  our  better  thoughts  and 
sympathies  were  charms  in  virtue  of  which  the  soul  is 
enabled  to  hold  some  vague  and  mysterious  intercourse 
with  the  spirits  of  those  whom  we  love  dearly  in  life. 
Alas  !  how  often  and  how  long  may  those  patient  angels 
hover  over  us,  watching  for  the  spell  which  is  so  seldom 
uttered  and  so  soon  forgotten. 


A  worthy  Baronet  of  Erin's  clime  had  a  famed 
telescope  in  His  possession,  and  on  a  time,  of  its  en- 
gaging powers  he  made  profession.  "Your  church,"  cried 
he,  "  is  distant  near  a  mile,  yet  when  I  view  it  steady  for  a 
while,  upon  a  bright  and  sunny  day,  my  glass  so  strong 
and  clear,  does  bring  the  church  so  near  that  I  can  hear 
the  organ  play. 


SCRAP    BOOK. 


WOMAN'S  LOVE. 


19 


The  beautiful  girl  a  chaplet  wove, 

Of  violets,  heart's-ease  and  rose, 
And  she  called  it  an  emblem  of  woman's  love, 

But  her  specimens  all  were  untrue. 

The  rose  that  blushed  to  each  man's  sigh, 
That  blossoms  yet  blooms  as  before, 

Is  no  emblem  of  that  which  can  never  die, 
Or  dying  can  bloom  no  more. 

The  modest  violet  simple  and  pure, 

But  she  who  like  it  can  impart 
Her  sweetness  to  all  around  her,  be  sure 

Love  never  has  touched  her  heart. 

And  heart's-ease,  why  the  very  name's  a  spell, 
Love  has  doubly  vowdly  to  break, 

Look  upon  her  who  has  loved  and  tell 
The  tale  that  you  read  on  her  cheek. 

And  rose  !  oh,  she  knew  as  little  of  love, 
Who  could  fancy  an  emblem  in  this, 

Whoever  has  felt  its  pangs  and  would  prove 
In  exchange  any  earthly  bliss. 

No,  give  me  the  lofty  and  lone  aloe, 
Scarce  known  to  our  northern  skies  ; 

That,  that  is  like  woman's  love,  for  oh  ! 
It  blossoms  but  once  and  dies, 


20  JANE    ROWLEYS 

IT  SPOILS  A  MAN  TO  MARRY  HIM. 

Believe,  dear  girls,  this  maxim  true, 
In  precept  and  in  practice,  too, 

That  it  spoils  a  man  to  marry  him  : 
The  creature  never  ought  to  go 
Beyond  a  honeymoon  or  so  ; 
If  they  survive  that,  they  will  show 
That  it  spoils  a  man  to  marry  him. 
When  first  he  kneels  before  your  feet, 
How  soft  his  words  !  his  looks  so  sweet. 

But  it  spoils  a  man  to  marry  him. 

When  once  a  late  consent  he'll  wring 
And  get  your  finger  in  the  ring, 
Oh  !  then  he's  quite  another  thing. 
It  spoils  a  man  to  marry  him. 

Have  you  a  fancy  ?  you  must  drop  it, 
A  will  it  may  be?  you  must  lop  it 

Before  you  think  of  marrying. 
And  even  if  you  venture  then, 
Select  the  very  worst  of  men  ; 
If  not,  nine  chances  out  of  ten 
'Twill  spoil  the  wretch  to  marry  him. 
Now  lady  fair,  I  must  tell  you 
For  fear  that  you  might  chance  to  rue, 

Don't  please  the  wretch  to  marry  him. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  21 


But,  lady  fair,  should  this  offend, 
Just  please  yourself,  for  in  the  end 
Perhaps  he'll  prove  a  trusty  friend, 
Then  love  the  lad  and  marry  him. 


BEAUTY. 
Oh  !  what  a  pure  and  sacred  thing 

Is  beauty  curtained  from  the  sight 
Of  the  gross  world,  illumining 

One  only  mansion  with  its  light. 
Unseen  by  man's  disturbing  eye, 

The  flower  that  blooms  beneath  the  sea 
Too  deep  for  sunbeams,  doth  not  lie 

Hid  in  more  chaste  obscurity. 


STANZA. 

BY   ROBERT    GILFILLAN. 
On  hearing  a  lady  sing  an  Irish  melody. 

Louise  !  Louise  !  what  strains  are  these 
That  fall  upon  mine  ear  the  while  ? 

'Tis  music's  voice,  and  thine  own  choice 
Sweet  breathing  from  the  Emerald  Isle  ! 

There  is  a  land  that  all  men  claim, 

Where'er  the  spot  on  rounded  earth  — 

Whate'er  the  clime,  whate'er  the  name  — 
Land  of  our  fathers  and  our  birth. 


22  JANE    ROWLEYS 

Old  England  has  its  vales  of  green, 
And  Scotland  has  its  woods  of  pine  ; 

And,  fair  Louise  !  thy  songs,  I  ween, 
Tell  that  loved  Erin's  land  is  thine. 

I  love  the  isle  from  whence  thou'rt  sprung, 
Land  of  the  brave,  the  kind,  the  free  : 

Where  harps  high-toned,  by  minstrels  strung 
Have  waked  their  sweetest  melody  ! 

Thy  sires,  Louise  !  in  lordly  halls 
Held  sway,  —  on  the  battle  plain 

Show'd  deeds,  which  thy  song  recalls 
We  hope  may  not  return  again. 

Too  much  of  blood — too  much  of  war 
Hath  England,  Erin,  Scotland  seen  :  — 

This  had  been  one  bright  scene  below 
Had  man  to  man  as  brother  been. 

We  seek  not  fame  that  still  is  ours, 

For  high  in  thought  and  bold  in  hand, 

Have  stood  our  sires,  with  giant  powers, 
The  guardians  of  our  fatherland  ! 

But  give  us  peace,  and  give  us  love,  — 
The  rose,  the  thistle,  shamrock  green  — 

United  thus  like  stars  above, 

Each  in  his  track  shall  bright  be  seen. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  23 


Fair  lady  !  wake  thy  song  again, 

Thee  and  its  strains  the  bard  adores  ; 

'Tis  Erin's  voice  across  the  main, 
Soft  sounding  on  our  Scottish  shore. 


SONNETS. 

BY    C.    B.    WYATT. 
NIGHT. 

Dear  hours  of  night !  how  many  a  soul  confined 
In  daily  bonds  awaits  thy  still  return,  — 

Whether  it  longs  o'er  cherished  griefs  to  mourn, 

From  which  with  jealous  care  it  wish  to  blind 

Familiar  gaze,  or,  free  as  rushing  winds 
Burst  from  yEolian  caverns,  wanders  o'er 
Hope's  airy  realms,  or  memory's  far  off  shore, 

Now  soaring,  pausing  now  :  for  night  is  kind 
To  raptures  such  as  these,  and  oft  I  wean 

Hath  she  beheld  the  solitary  tear 

Hid  from  day's  gaudy  eye,  in  secret  seen 

The  heart  revealed,  or  the  perception  clear 

Brought  back  the  look  of  kindness  that  has  been, 

And  distant  voices  to  the  dreaming  ear. 


Little  minds  rejoice  over  the  errors  of  men  of  genius, 
as  the  owl  rejoices  at  an  eclipse. 


24  JANE    ROWLEYS 

WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

Is  love  a  mere  passion,  an  excitement?  Is  it  not  rather 
a  mystic  affiiny  existing  in  kindred  minds,  latent,  per- 
haps, till  circumstances  bring  them  within  the  sphere  of 
its  mysterious  agency?  Is  the  beautiful  apologue  all  fable 
that  the  souls  of  those  individuals  of  either  sex,  intended 
for  each  other,  receive  at  their  formation  the  impress  of 
their  destiny,  however  widely  separated  at  their  birth, 
and  know  and  recognize  each  other.     God  forbid. 


Retrospection.  —  When  the  veil  of  death  has  been 
drawn  between  us  and  the  objects  of  our  regard,  how 
quick-sighted  we  become  to  their  merits,  and  how  bitterly 
do  we  then  remember  words  or  looks  of  unkindness  which 
may  have  escaped  us  in  our  intercourse  with  them.  How 
careful  should  such  thoughts  render  us  in  the  fulfillment 
of  those  offices  of  affection,  which  it  maybe  in  our  power 
to  perform,  for  who  can  tell  how  soon  the  moment  may 
arrive  when  repentance  cannot  be  followed  by  reparation. 


Foul  jealousy!  that  turnest  love  divine  to  joyous 
dread,  or  makest  the  loving  heart  with  hateful  thoughts 
to  languish  and  to  pine.  And  feed  itself  with  self- 
consuming  smart.  Of  all  the  passions  of  the  mind 
thou  vilest  art.  —  Spencer. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  25 

Woe  to  him  that  removeth  the  ancient  landmark, 

For  a  serpent  shall  sting  him. 

Woe  to  him  that  increases  that  which  is  not  his, 

And  establishes  his  house  with  blood ! 

Woe  to  him  that  dealeth  treacherously, 

For  when  he  shall  make  an  end  of  dealing  treacherously, 

Others  shall  deal  treacherously  by  him  ! 


I  LOVE  HER,  HOW  I  LOVE  HER. 

I  love  her,  how  I  love  her, 
Tho'  mine,  alas !  she  ne'er  can  be, 
The  sun  that  shines  above  her, 
Is  far  less  bright  to  me  ; 
Tho'  time  by  tears  I  measure, 
I  prize  my  fatal  treasure, 
And  find  a  fatal  pleasure 
In  suffering  sweet  for  thee. 

I  love  her,  how  I  love  her. 

Deep,  deep  in  my  bosom  concealing, 
The  fierce  flame,  the  flame  that  consumes  me, 
Ne'er,  ne'er  e'er  to  thee  shall  my  lips  reveal 
All  the  woes  I  feel ;  the  voice  of  honor  I  obey, 
It  speaks  in  friendship's  sacred  name, 
And  to  my  heart  alone  I  say,  — 
I  love  her,  how  I  love  her. 


26  jane  rowley's 

THE  GRAVES  OF  A  HOUSEHOLD. 

They  grew  in  beauty  side  by  side, 
They  fill'd  one  house  with  glee. 

Their  graves  are  scattered  far  and  wide, 
By  mount,  by  stream,  and  sea. 

The  same  fond  mother  bent  at  night, 
O'er  each  fair  sleeper's  brow  ; 

She  had  each  flower  in  her  sight,  — 
Where  are  those  dreamers  now? 

One  midst  the  forest  of  the  west, 

By  a  dark  stream  is  laid, 
The  Indian  knows  his  place  of  rest, 

Far  in  the  cedar  shade. 

The  sea,  the  lone  blue  sea  has  one, 

He  lies  where  pearls  lie  deep, 
He  was  the  lov'd  of  all,  yet  none 

O'er  his  low  bed  may  weep. 
One  sleeps  where  southern  vines  are  drest 

Above  the  noble  slain  ; 
He  wrapped  his  colors  round  his  breast, 

On  a  blood-red  field  of  Spain. 
And  one  o'er  her  the  myrtle  showers, 

Its  leaves  by  soft  winds  fann'd, 
She  faded  midst  Italian  bowers, 

The  last  of  that  bright  land. 


SCIIAP    BOOK.  2f 

And  parted  thus  the  rest,  who  played, 

Beneath  the  same  green  tree  ; 
Whose  voices  mingled  as  they  prayed 

Around  one  parent  knee. 

They  that  with  smiles  lit  up  the  hall, 
And  cheered  with  song  the  hearth,  — 

Alas  !  for  love,  if  thou  wert  all, 

And  naught  beyond,  oh  earth  !  —  He?nans. 


THE  MARINER'S  FAREWELL  TO  HIS  SHIP. 

Farewell  to  thee,  my  gallant  ship,  thy  race  is  run  at  last, 
Thy  timbers  o'er  the  troubled  waves  in  wild  confusion 

cast ; 
Ah  !  never  more  I'll  see  thee  in  thy  loveliness  and  pride, 
Bound  boldly  o'er  the  billows,  or  dash  the  surf  aside. 

Oh  !    to    see  thee  in  thy  beauty,   careering  through  the 

deep, 
While  laughing  waters  round  thy  prow  in  gladness  doth 

leap  ; 
Thy  snowy  sails,  thy  stately  spars,  thy  streamers  flashing 

free, 
I  did  not  think  that  fate  could  harm  so  fair  a  thing  as- 

thee. 


2S  jane  rowley's 

"  Thou  lookest  so  like  a  thing  of  life,"  I  never  dream 

the  wave, 
Whose  offspring  thou  didst  seem  to  be,  would  prove  at 

last  thy  grave. 
Full  many  a  steep  and  stormy  sea  thou'st  swept  in  triumph 

o'er, 
But  now,  alas  !  my  fearless  ship,  thou' 11  brave  the  waves 

no  more. 

No    more    I'll    tread    thy    slippery    deck,    or    climb    thy 

haughty  mast, 
Which  scarcely  deigned  to  bend  before  the  breeze  that 

galloped  past, 
Thou  liest  with  a  winding  sheet  of  foam  encircling  round, 
Thy  dirge  the  whistling  tempest,  or  the  surges'  sullen 

sound. 

My  early  friends  have  passed  away,  my  only  love  is  laid 
In  sorrow  and  in  silence,  beneath  the  willow  shade  ; 
Thou  wast  the  sole  remaining  thing  that  I  could  call  my 

own, 
Thou  too  art  gone,  and  I  am  left  upon  the  world  alone. 


TO  THE  VIOLET. 

Oh  '   would  sweet  flower  that  I  might  be 
Destined  to  live  in  shade  like  thee, 
Seen  by  but  few  and  known  to  none, 


SCRAP    BOOK.  29 

Save  those  that  seek  me  as  their  own,  — 

To  bloom  upon  my  native  ground 

With  those  I  love  encircling  round, 

To  be  a  harbinger  of  spring, 

A  lovely  yet  a  fmgile  thing, 

And  when  I  die,  sweet  flower  to  be 

Still  loved  for  purity,  —  like  thee. 


SONG. 

If  after  all  thou  still  will  doubt  and  fear  me, 
And  think  this  heart  to  other  loves  will  stray ; 
If  I  must  swear  then  lovely  doubter  hear  me, 
By  every  dream  I  have  when  thou'rt  away, 
By  every  throb  I  feel  when  thou  art  near  me, 
I  love  but  thee  —  I  love  but  thee. 

By  those  dark  eyes  where  light  is  ever  playing, 

Where  love  in  depths  of  shadow  holds  its  throne  ; 

And  by  those  lips  which  give  what'er  thou'rt  saying, 

Or  grave  or  gay  a  music  of  its  own, 

A  music  far  beyond  all  minstrels  playing,  — 

I  love  but  thee  —  I  love  but  thee. 

By  that  fair  brow  where  innocence  reposes, 
As  pure  as  moonlight  sleeping  upon  snow  ; 
And  by  that  cheek  whose  fleeting  blush  discloses 
A  hue  too  bright  to  bless  this  world  below, 
And  only  fit  to  dwell  on  Eden's  roses, 
I  love  but  thee  —  I  love  but  thee. 


30  JANE    ROWLEY  S 

-"PAPA,  WHAT  IS  A  NEWSPAPER,  AND  WHAT 
DOES  IT  CONTAIN?" 

Organs,  that  means  play,  my  boy, 
To  answer  the  taste  of  the  clay, 

Whatever  it  be, 

The  hit  on  the  key. 
And  pipe  in  full  chorus,  away,  my  boy. 

News  from  all  countries  and  climes, 
Advertisements,  essays  and  rhymes. 

Mixed  up  with  all  sorts 

Of  (f)  lying  retorts, 
And  published  at  regular  times. 

Articles  able  and  wise, 

At  least  in  the  editor's  eyes, 

And  logic  so  grand, 

That  few  understand 
To  what  in  the  world  it  applies. 

Statistics,  reflections,  reviews, 
Little  scraps  to  instruct  and  amuse 

And  lengthy  debate 

Upon  matters  of  State, 
For  wise-headed  folks  to  peruse. 

The  funds  as  they  were,  as  they  are, 
The  quibs  and  the  quirks  of  the  bar, 


SCRAP   BOOK.  3r 

And  every  week 
A  clever  critique 
Of  some  clever  theatrical  star. 

The  age  of  Jupiter's  moons, 

And  stealing  of  somebody's  spoons, 

The  state  of  the  crops, 

The  style  of  the  sops, 
And  the  wit  of  the  public  buffoon. 

List  of  all  physical  ills, 
Banished  by  somebody's  pills, 

Till  you  ask  with  surprise, 

Why  any  one  dies, 
Or  what's  the  disorder  that  kills. 

Who  has  got  married,  to  whom, — 
Who  were  cut  oft'  in  their  bloom, 

Who  has  had  birth 

On  this  sorrow-stained  earth, 
And  who  totters  fast  to  the  tomb  ? 

The  price  of  cattle  and  grain, 
Directions  to  dig  and  to  drain  ; 

But  'twould  take  me  too  long 

To  tell  you  in  song 
A  quarter  of  all  they  contain. 


32  jane  rowley's 


THE  CANTEEN. 

BY  PRIVATE    MILES  O'REILLY. 

There  are  bonds  of  all  sorts  in  this  world  of  ours, 
Fetters  of  friendship,  and  ties  of  flowers, 

And  true  lovers'  knots  I  ween  ! 
The  girl  and  the  boy  are  bound  by  a  kiss, 
But  there's  never  a  bond,  old  friend,  like  this  — 

We  have  drank  from  the  same  canteen. 

It  was  sometimes  water,  and  sometimes  milk. 
And  sometimes  apple-jack  fine  as  silk, 

But  whatever  the  tipple  has  been, 
We  shared  it  together  in  bane  or  bliss, 
And  I  warm  to  thee,  friend,  when  I  think  of  this  — 

We  have  drank  from  the  same  canteen. 

The  rich  and  the  great  sit  down  to  dine, 

And  they  quaff  to  each  other  in  sparkling  wine, 

From  glasses  of  crystal  and  green  ; 
But  I  guess  in  their  golden  potations  they  miss 
The  warmth  of  regard  to  be  found  in  this, 

We  have  drank  from  the  same  canteen. 

We  have  shared  our  blanket  and  tent  together, 

And  have  marched  and  fought  in  all  kinds  of  weather, 

And  hungry  and  full  we  have  been  ; 
Had  days  of  battle  and  days  of  rest, 


SCRAP    BOOK.  33 

But  this  memory  I  cling  to  and  love  the  hest, 
We  have  drank  from  the  same  canteen. 

For  wounded  I  lay  on  the  outer  slope, 

With  my  blood  flowing  fast  and  but  little  hope 

Upon  which  my  faint  spirit  could  lean  ; 
Oh,  then,  I  remember,  you  crawled  to  my  side, 
And  bleeding  so  fast,  it  seemed  both  should  have  died, 

We  drank  from  the  same  canteen. 


COURAGE  IN  WOMEN. 

There  is  a  branch  of  general  education  which  is  not 
thought  at  all  necessary  for  women,  as  regards  which, 
indeed,  it  is  well  if  they  are  not  brought  up  to  culti- 
vate the  opposite.  Women  are  not  taught  to  be  cour- 
ageous. Indeed  to  some  persons  courage  may  seem  as 
unnecessary  as  Latin  or  Greek.  Yet  there  are  few 
things  that  would  tend  to  make  woman  happier  in 
themselves,  and  more  acceptable  to  those  with  whom 
they  live  than  courage.  There  are  many  women  of 
the  present  day,  sensible  women  in  other  things,  whose 
panic  terrors  are  a  frequent  source  of  discomfort  to  them- 
selves and  those  around  them.  Now  it  is  a  great  mis- 
take to  imagine  that  hardness  must  go  with  courage ! 
and  that  the  bloom  of  gentleness  and  sympathy  must 
all  be  rubbed  oft' by  that  vapor  of  the  mind. 


34  JANE    ROWLEY  S 

How  noiselessly  the  snow  comes  down.  You  may 
see  it,  but  never  hear  it.  It  is  true  charity.  Has  any 
one  wounded  you  with  injuries  ?  Meet  them  with  patience  ; 
hasty  words  rankle  the  wound;  kindness  dresses  it, 
forgiveness  cures  it,  and  oblivion  takes  away  the  scar. 
Keep  doing,  always  doing.  Wishing,  dreaming,  in- 
tending, murmuring,  talking,  sighing,  and  repining  are 
idle  and  profitless  employments.  Speak  nothing  but 
what  may  benefit  others  or  yourself.  Avoid  trifling 
conversation. 


CULTIVATION  OF  WOMAN'S  MIND. 

It  is  a  wrong  view  of  things  to  suppose  that  a  just 
cultivation  of  woman's  mental  powers  will  take  them 
out  of  their  sphere.  The  most  cultivated  women  per- 
form their  common  duties  best.  They  see  more  in 
those  duties.  They  can  do  more.  Lady  Jane  Grey 
would,  I  dare  say,  have  bound  up  a  wound,  or  man- 
aged a  household  with  any  unlettered  woman  of  her 
day.  Queen  Elizabeth  did  manage  a  kingdom,  and  we 
find  no  pedantry  in  her  way  of  doing  it. 


Not  as  the  worldling  bids  farewell 
When  earthly  wishes  bound  his  view, 
None  but  the  Christian's  tongue  can  tell, 
The  fulness  of  that  word,  adieu. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  35 

THE  CIRCASSIAN  SLAVE. 

A  maiden  young,  with  fair  hair  flowing, 

Scarce  covered  with  a  linen  white, 
Lies  amid  other  wares  deep  glowing, 

In  the  bazarr,  exposed  to  sight. 

Not  far  from  her,  deep  wrapt  and  sunken, 

And  gazing  on  her  youthful  charms, 
A  young  man  stands,  his  fond  eye  drunken, 

Dress'd  as  a  slave,  with  folded  arms. 

The  broker  cries,  "  Look  here,  ye  buyers  ! 

From  Caucasus,  a  lovely  child  ; 
When  saw  ye  eyes  with  brighter  fires, 

A  form  more  fair,  a  face  so  mild  ?  " 

"  From  head  to  foot  such  beauties  grace  her, 

That  were  I  of  Algiers  the  Dey, 
In  my  seraglios  list  to  place  her 

Good  twenty  purses  full  I'd  pay  !  " 

So  fair  a  form  of  alabaster, 

No  Moslem  house  as  yet  can  claim, 
"  I  offer  fifty  gold  piasters  !  " 

A  Bashaw  cries,  with  eyes  of  flame. 
"  I'll  give  sixty  ! "  says  an  Emir, 

Whose  heart  beat  high  within  his  breast ; 
"An  hundred  !  "  says  an  Aga,  "look  here, 

I  offer  more  than  all  the  rest !  " 


36  jane  rowley's 

"  No  !  "  an  Efiendi  calls,  "  believe  me, 

A  hundred  is  too  small  a  sum  ; 
I  will  fifty  more  to  have  thee  ; 

Thou'rt  mine,  young  maiden,  —  rise  and  come  !  " 

"  Not  yet !  "  exclaims  a  Greek  ;  "  my  masters, 

Those  eyes  as  bright  as  the  gazelle, 
Are  worth  two  hundred  gold  piasters, 

That  every  one  must  know  full  well." 

"  I  bid  four  hundred  golden  pieces  !  " 

A  Muscovite's  loud  voice  proclaims  ; 
"  That  price  this  maiden  releases, 

So,  bidders  all,  withdraw  your  claims  !  " 

And  with  rude  grasp  the  Russian  taking, 

The  young  Circassian  by  the  hands, 
See  how  that  youth,  as  if  awaking, 

Soon  by  her  side  in  fury  stands, 

And  cries,  "Not  yet,  O,  Russian,  hast  thou 

Obtained  this  maiden  as  thy  slave  ! 
For  know,  a  price  for  her  I'll  bid  now 

Ten  times  as  great  as  all  you  gave  !  " 

The  maiden  joyous,  but  still  fearful, 

Starts  as  she  hears  that  well-loved  tone  ; 

No  music  e'er  seemed  half  so  cheerful, 
As  sounds  her  lover's  voice  —  her  own  ! 


SCRAP    BOOK.  37 

But  see  with  anger  deeply  burning, 

The  Russian  seize  his  yatagan, 
And  cry,  "your  price?  "  in  fury  turning  — 

"  You  tawny  dog  from  Afganistan  !  " 

'",  Her  freedom  !  "  thundered  the  Circassian, 
With  eyes  that  flamed  wild  rage  and  hate  ; 

And  sudden  paleness  seized  each  other, 

Whose  cheeks  had  burned  and  slowed  of  late. 


&' 


For  see  !  a  poignard  bright  disclosing, 
He  pierces  through  that  virgin  breast ; 

The  maiden  sinks,  her  bright  eyes  closing, 
Clasp'd  in  his  arms  to  endless  rest. 

In  vain  each  dagger  bright  now  glances, 
No  steel  shall  touch  him  but  his  own. 

Long  e'er  that  angry  troup  advances, 
Both  souls  to  joy  in  heaven  had  flown. 


Woman's  Influence.  —  "There  is  something  to 
me,"  says  Byron,  "very  softening  in  the  presence  of 
a  woman,  some  strange  influence,  even  if  one  is  not 
in  love  with  them.  I  always  feel  in  a  better  humor 
with  myself  and  everything  else  if  there  is  a  woman 
within  ken." 


3S  jane  rowley's 

NOTHING  IS  LOST. 

Aside  from  its  excellent  moral,  is  not  the  following  very  musical  and 
beautiful  ? 

Nothing  is  lost,  the  drop  of  dew 

Which  trembles  on  the  leaf  or  flower, 

Is  but  exhaled  to  fall  anew 
In  summer's  thunder-shower ; 

Perchance  to  sparkle  in  the  flow 
Of  fountains  far  away. 

Nothing  is  lost,  the  tiniest  seed 

By  wild  birds  borne  or  breezes  blown, 
Finds  something  suited  to  its  need, 

Wherein  'tis  sown  and  grown  ; 
The  language  of  some  household  song, 

The  perfume  of  some  cherished  flower, 
Though  gone  from  outward  sense,  belong 

To  memory's  after-hour. 

So  with  our  words,  or  harsh,  or  kind, 

Uttered,  they  are  not  all  forgot ; 
They  have  their  influence  on  the  mind, 

Pass  on  but  perish  not. 
So  with  our  deeds,  or  good,  or  ill, 

They  have  their  power  scarce  understood  ; 
Then  let  us  use  our  better  will 

To  make  them  rife  with  good. 


SCRAP   BOOK.  39 


TO 


Of  all  the  flowers  that  sweetly  blow, 
You  ask  which  is  most  dear  to  me  ; 

I  love  them  best  that  native  grow, 
And  unassuming  bloom  like  thee. 


*» 


And  first  I  love  the  violet  sweet, 

Content  it  blooms,  though  none  may  see 

The  applausive  gaze  it  does  not  seek, 
But  hides  its  modest  worth  like  thee. 

And  the  vale  lily's  virgin  white, 
Its  forms  and  emblems  well  agree, 

Tho'  simply  clothed  it  glads  the  sight, 
Though  unobtrusive  charms  like  thee. 

I  love  the  wild  forget-me-not, 

Where  labor  rests  it  does  not  flee, 

But  graces  oft  the  rustic's  cot, 

And  breathes  contentment  round  like  thee. 

I  love  the  rose  because  its  cheek 

Glows  fresh  with  health  and  cheerful  glee, 
Its  tints  the  touch  of  beauty  speak, 

'Tis  beauty's  favorite,  'tis  thee. 

To  number  more  were  waste  of  time, 
In  short  whate'er  their  forms  may  be 


„>. 


4-0  JANE    ROWLEYS 

Whate'er  their  hues,  whate'er  their  clime, 
I  love  them  most  when  most  like  thee. 


The  laws  of  politeness  should  be  observed  not  only 
between  intimate  friends,  but  between  members  of  the 
same  family,  and  those  households  are  most  peace- 
ful and  happy  where  the  courtesies  of  good  society  are 
observed.  There  need  not,  and  ought  not  to  be  for- 
mality ;  but  little  attention  between  brothers  and  sisters, 
making  mutual  esteem,  prevent  that  carelessness  and 
hardness  which  is  most  apt  to  creep  into  the  family, 
and  which  grow  out  of  intimacy.  It  is  good  manners 
and  consideration  for  each  other's  feelings  that  prevents 
familiarity  engendering  contempt. 


ADAM'S  SLEEP. 

He  laid  him  down  and  slept,  and  from  his  side 
A  woman  in  her  magic  beauty  rose  ; 
Dazzled  and  charmed  he  called  that  woman  "  bride," 
And  his  first  sleep  became  his  last  repose. 

A  friend  that  you  have  to  buy  wont  lie  worth  what 
you  have  to  pay  for  him,  no  matter  how  little  that  may 
be.  

Leave  your  grievances,  as  Napoleon  did  his  letters, 
unopened  for  three  weeks,  and  it  is  astonishing  how  few 
of  them  will  at  that  time  require  answering. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  41 


THE  PARROT. 


The  deep  affections  of  the  hreast, 

That  heaven  to  living  things  imparts. 

Are  not  exclusively  possessed 
By  human  hearts. 

A  parrot  from  the  Spanish  main, 

Full  young  and  early  caged  came  o'er, 

With  bright  wings  to  the  bleak  domain 
Of  Mulla's  shore. 

The  spicy  groves  where  he  had  won 
His  plumage  of  resplendent  hue, 

His  native  fruits,  and  skies,  and  sun, 
He  bade  adieu. 

For  those  he  changed  the  smoke  of  turf, 

A  heathry  land  and  misty  sky, 
And  turn'd  on  rocks  and  raging  surf, 

His  golden  eye. 

But,  petted  in  our  climate  cold, 

He  lived  and  chattered  many  a  day ; 

Until  with  age,  from  green  and  gold, 
His  wings  grew  grey. 

At  last  when  blind  and  seeming  dumb, 
He  scolded,  laughed,  and  spoke  no  more, 


42  JANE    ROWLEY  S 

A  Spanish  stranger  chanced  to  come 
To  Mulla's  shore. 

He  hailed  the  bird  in  Spanish  speech, 

The  bird  in  Spanish  speech  replied, 
Flapp'd  round  the  cage  with  joyous  screech, 

Dropp'd  down  and  died. 

This  incident,  so  strongly  illustrating  the  power  of  memory  and  as 
sociation   in  the  lower  animals,  is  not  a  fiction.    I  heard  it  many  years 
ago  in  the  Island  of  Mulla,  from  the  family  to  whom  the  bird  belonged 
—  Thomas  Campbell. 


LINES  WRITTEN  UPON   SEEING  MULVANY'S 

PICTURE  OF  "FIRST  LOVE,"   IN  THE 

IRISH  EXHIBITION  OF  PAINTINGS. 

BY    ELIZABETH    AUCHINLECK. 

Aye,  gaze  upon  her  face,  impassioned  boy, 
In  its  sweet  bashfulness  and  timid  joy  ! 
Thine  is  a  trustful  homage,  free  from  art, 
The  earnest  worship  of  an  untaught  heart ! 

Nought  throughout  after  life  thy  sight  shall  bless, 
One  thousandth  part  so  rich  in  loveliness, 
As  that  young  peasant  girl,  so  simply  fair 
With  her  unsandled  feet  and  braided  hair. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  43 

Boyhood  will  flee  away —  the  time  will  come 
When  for  the  haunts  of  men  thou 'It  leave  thy  home  ; 
Yet  oft  will  memory  turn  so  fondly  still 
To  that  companion  dear,  and  lonely  hill. 

And  years  will  pass,  till  dim  as  some  sweet  dream, 
The  vision  of  thy  early  years  will  seem  ; 
But  never,  never,  quite  from  out  thy  heart 
Will  the  lone  echo  of  her  voice  depart. 

And  thou  may'st  love  again — aye,  passionately, 
And  past  expression  dear  thy  idol  be  ; 
But  the  first  love  of  youth's  a  precious  thing, 
A  fragrant  flower  that  knows  no  second  spring ! 

Thus  mused  I  as  I  gazed  with  spell-bound  eyes, 
And  blessed  the  "  Art  that  could  immortalize." 


TFUTH. 


Truth  is  the  trial  of  itself, 
And  needs  no  other  touch, 

And  purer  than  the  purest  gold, 
Refine  it  ne'er  so  much. 

It  is  the  light  and  life  of  love, 
The  sun  that  ever  shineth, 

And  spirit  of  that  special  grace, 
That  faith  and  love  defineth. 


44  jane  rowley's 

It  is  the  warrant  of  the  word, 
That  yields  a  scent  so  sweet, 

As  gives  a  power  to  faith  to  tread 
All  falsehood  under  feet. 

It  is  the  word  that  doth  divide 
"  The  marrow  from  the  bone," 

And  in  affect  of  heavenly  love 
Doth  show  the  holy  one. 


Recreation. — Make  thy  recreation  servant  to  thy 
"business,  lest  thou  become  slave  to  thy  recreation.  When 
thou  goest  up  into  the  mountain  leave  this  servant  in  the 
valley.  When  thou  goest  to  the  city,  leave  him  in  the 
suburbs*,"and  remember  the  servant  must  not  be  greater 
than  the  master. 


MARY  MaCIIREE. 


BY    SAMUEL    LOVER. 


The  words  of  this  beautiful  song  appeared  in  the  last  number  but  one 
of  the  Artist-Authors,'  "  L.  S.  D."  The  air  to  which  they  are  wedded  is 
plaintive  and  pathetic. 

The  flower  of  the  valley  was  Mary  MaChrce  ; 

Her  smiles  all  bewitching  were  lovely  to  see, 

The  bees  round  her  humming,  when  summer  was  gone, 

When  the  roses  were  fled  might  her  lips  take  for  one. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  45 

Her  laugh  it  was  music,  her  breath  it  was  balm  ; 
Her  heart  like  the  lake,  was  as  pure  and  as  calm, 
Till  love  o'er  her  came,  like  a  breeze  o'er  the  sea, 
And  made  the  heart  heave  of  sweet  Mary  MaChree. 

She  loved,  and    she  wept ;  for  when  was  gladness  e'er 

known 
To  dwell  in  the  bosom  that  love  made  his  own  ? 
His  joys  are  but  moments,  his  griefs  are  for  years  ; 
He  comes  all  in  smiles  and  leaves  all  in  tears ! 
Her  lover  was  gone  to  a  far  distant  land, 
And  Mary  in  sadness  would  pace  the  lone  strand, 
And  tearfully  gaze  on  the  dark  rolling  sea 
That  patted  her  soldier  from  Mary  MaChree. 

To  these  is  added  another  verse,  by  Mr.  James  Storehouse,  of  Liverpool. 

Oh  !  pale  grew  her  cheek  when  there  came  from  afar, 

The  tales  of  the  battle,  and  tidings  of  war  ; 

Her   eyes  filled  with    tears,  when   the   clouds   gathered 

dark, 
For  fancy  would  picture  some  tempest-tost  bark  ; 
But  when  winter  came  on  and  the  deep  woods  were  bare, 
In  the  hall  was  a  voice,  and  a  foot  on  the  stair, 
Oh  !  joy  to  the  maiden,  for  o'er  the  deep  sea, 
The  soldier  returned  to  his  Mary  MaChree. 


In  character  as  in  architecture,  proportion  is  beauty. 


46  JAxe  rowley's 

MY  NATIVE  LAND. 

Breathes  there  a  man  with  soul  so  dead, 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said, 

This  is  my  own,  my  native  land, 
Whose  heart  has  ne'er  within  him  burned 
As  home  his  footsteps  he  has  turned, 

From  wandering  in  a  foreign  land  ? 
If  such  there  be,  go  mark  him  well, 
For  him  no  minstrel  raptures  swell ; 
High  though  his  title,  proud  his  name, 
Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  can  claim  ; 
Despite  those  titles,  power  and  pelf, 
The  wretch  concentrated  all  in  self, 
Living  shall  forfeit  fair  renown, 
And  doubly  dying  shall  go  down, 
To  the  vile  grave  from  whence  he  sprung, 
Unwept,  unhonored,  and  unsung. 


How  happily,  how  happily,  the  flowers  die  away, 
Oh  !  could  we  but  return  to  earth  as  easily  as  they, 
Just  live  a  life  of  sunshine,  of  innocence  and  bloom, 
Then  drop  without  decrepitude  or  pain  into  the  tomb. 


Every  man  has  just  as  much  vanity  as  he  wants  un- 
derstanding. 

Why  is  matrimony  like  a  pair  of  snutflers? 


SCRAP    BOOK.  47 

THE  FUNERAL  OF  NAPOLEON. 

'Tis  night !  no  eye  is  closed  in  sleep 

In  lowly  roof  or  lordly  dome, 
Peals  on  the  gale,  with  thundering  sweep, 
The  old  cathedral  through  the  gloom  ; 
And  like  a  torrent's  overflow, 
Echo  the  thronging  streets  below. 

'Tis  morn  !  from  battlement  to  ground 

All  is  a  blaze  of  gold  and  steel ; 
Rings  in  the  ear  the  trumpets  sound, 
The  trampling  of  the  charger's  heel ; 
The  rushing  tide, 
Imperial  Paris  in  her  pride. 

What  wakes,  proud  city,  your  array? 

What  youthful  king  ascends  the  throne  ? 
What  sovereign  beauty's  bridal  day? 
What  battle  gained ?     What  kingdom  won? 

Whom  worship  this  high  pomp  of  war? 

What  son  of  glory's  rising  star  ? 

Be  hushed  !  let  sad  mortality 

Tell  the  sad  moral  of  his  tale, 
Low  in  the  dust,  ye  standards  lie  — 
Ye  trumpets,  breathe  the  funeral  wail ; 
Weep,  weep,  )e  brilliant  and  ye  brave, 
'Tis  but  the  trumpet  of  the  grave. 


4S  jane  rowley's 

Now  roars  the  gun  with  deeper  roar, 
Out  bursts  the  voice  of  multitudes  ; 
Onward  the  glittering  legions  pour, 

There  wave  the  banners  steeped  in  blood, 
The  sword  that  strewed  the  earth  with  slain, 
From  Niomen's  shores  to  swarthy  Spain. 

But  far  along  the  dazzling  line 

Napoleon  comes  !  that  man  of  power  ; 
A  melancholy  pomp  is  thine  ! 

In  vain  o'er  thee  the  garlands  shower  ; 

That  conqueror  needs  nor  trump  or  plume, 
His  ear  is  cold, — his  throne  a  tomb. 

This  was  the  man  of  many  a  crown, 

Who  filled  the  nations  with  his  fame, 
Whose  footstool  saw  the  earth  bow  down  — 
The  voice  of  fate,  the  glance  of  flame, 
The  fearful  idol  of  the  world, 
There  lies  he  from  his  glory  hurled. 

One  hand  withstood  him  to  the  last, 

One  fearless,  glorious  friend  of  man  ; 
Till  o'er  his  wing  her  chain  she  cast, 
Till  his  starred  diadem  was  wan  ; 
Now  from  her  distant  dungeon  cave, 
To  France  she  gives  him  and  the  grave. 


SCRAP    BOOK. 

SONG. 

BY   MRS.    HEMANS. 

What  woke  the  buried  sound  that  lay 

In  Memnon's  harp  of  yore? 
What  spirit  on  the  viewless  way, 

Along:  the  Nile's  green  shore? 
Oh  !   not  the  night,  and  not  the  storm, 

And  not  the  lightning's  fire  ; 
But  sunlight  touch  —  the  kind,  the  warm, 

This  woke  the  mystic  lyre, 

This,  this  awoke  the  lyre. 

What  wins  the  heart's  deep  chords  to  pour 

Their  music  forth  on  life, 
Like  a  sweet  voice  prevailing  o'er 

The  sounds  of  torrent  strife  ? 
Oh  !  not  the  conflict  midst  the  strong, 

Not  e'en  the  trumpet's  hour  ; 
Love  is  the  gifted  and  the  strong, 

To  wake  that  music's  power, 

His  breath  awakes  that  power. 


49 


HOME. 


Where  burns  the  loved  hearth  brightest, 

Cheering  the  social  breast? 
Where  beats  the  fond  heart  lightest, 


50  JANIi    KOWLEY  S 

Its  humble  hopes  possessed  ! 
Where  is  the  smile  of  sadness, 

Of  meek-eyed  patience  born, 
Worth  more  than  those  of  gladness, 

Which  mirth's  bright  cheeks  adorn? 
Pleasure  is  marked  by  fleetness 

To  those  who  ever  roam. 
While  grief  itself  has  sweetness 

At  home,  dear  home. 

There  blend  the  tears  that  strengthen 

Our  hearts  in  hours  of  grief, 
The  silver  links  that  lengthen 

Joy's  visit  when  most  brief; 
Their  eyes  in  all  their  splendor 

Are  vocal  to  the  heart, 
And  glances  gay  and  tender, 

Fresh  eloquence  impart ; 
Then  cost  thou  sigh  for  pleasure, 

Oh  !  do  not  wildly  roam, 
But  seek  that  hidden  treasure 

At  home,  sweet  home. 

Docs  pure  religion  charm  thee, 
Far  more  than  aught  below? 

Would'st  thou  that  she  should  arm  thee 
Against  the  hour  of  woe: 


SCRAP    BOOK.  51 


Think  not  she  dwelleth  only 

[n  temples  made  for  prayer, 
For  home  itself  were  lonely 

Unless  her  smiles  be  there. 
The  devotee  may  falter, 

The  bigot  blindly  roam, 
If  worshipless  her  altar 

At  home,  sweet  home. 

Love  over  it  presideth, 

With  meek  and  watchful  awe  ; 
Its  daily  service  guideth 

And  shows  its  perfect  law  ; 
If  there  thy  faith  shall  fail  thee, 

If  there  no  shrine  be  found, 
What  can  thy  prayer  avail  thee, 

With  kneeling  crowds  around  ? 
Go,  leave  thy  gift  unoftered 

Beneath  religious  dome, 
And  be  thy  first  fruits  offered 

At  home,  dear  home. 


Man  and  his  maker.  —  They  that  deny  God,  de- 
stroy man's  nobility  ;  for  certainly  man  is  of  kin  to  the 
beasts  by  his  body,  and  if  he  be  not  of  kin  to  God  by  his 
spirit,  he  is  an  ignoble  creature. 


52  jane  rowley's 

BETTER  LATE  THAN  NEVER. 

Life  is  a  race  where  some  succeed, 

While  others  are  beginning  ; 
'Tis  luck  at  times,  at  others  speed, 

That  gives  an  early  winning ; 
But  if  you  chance  to  fall  behind, 

Ne'er  slacken  your  endeavor, 
Just  keep  this  wholesome  truth  in  mind, 

'Tis  better  late  than  never. 

If  you  can  keep  ahead,  'tis  well, 
•  But  never  trip  your  neighbor  ; 

'Tis  noble  when  you  can  excel, 

By  honest,  patient  labor  ; 
But  if  you  are  outstripped  at  best 

Press  on  as  bold  as  ever, 
Remember,  though  you  are  surpassed, 

'Tis  better  late  than  never. 

Ne'er  labor  for  an  idle  boast, 

Of  victory  o'er  another, 
But  while  you  strive  your  uttermost, 

Deal  fairly  with  a  brother; 
Whate'er  your  station,  do  your  best, 

And  hold  your  purpose  ever, 
And  if  you  fail  to  beat  the  rest, 

'Tis  better  late  than  never. 


/ 


SCRAP    BOOK.  53 

Choose  well  the  path  in  which  you  run, 

Succeed  by  noble  daring, 
Then,  though  the  last,  when  once  'tis  won 

Your  crown  is  worth  the  wearing. 
Then  never  fret  if  left  behind, 

Nor  slacken  your  endeavor, 
But  ever  keep  this  truth  in  mind, 

'Tis  better  late  than  never. 


SONG. 


I  stood  amid  the  glittering  throng, 

I  heard  a  voice,  its  tones  were  sweet, 
I  turned  to  see  from  whence  it  came, 

And  gazed  on  all  I  wished  to  meet. 
She  was  a  fair  and  gentle  girl, 

Her  meek  eye  greeted  me  by  chance, 
I  whispered  low,  I  took  her  hand, 

I  led,  I  led  her  forth  to  dance. 

We  had  but  little  space  to  move, 

So  close,  so  closely  all  were  drawn, 
But  she  was  light  of  heart  and  step, 

And  graceful,  graceful  as  a  fawn. 
A  virgin  flower  gemm'd  her  hair, 

Her  beauty  to  enhance, 
She  was  the  flower  of  all  that  stood, 

In  that  close  cottage  dance. 


■cs 


54  JANE    ROWLEY  S 

I've  moved  since  then  in  princely  halls, 

I  tread  them  even  now  ; 
I  hold  in  mind  the  hand  of  one 

With  coroneted  brow. 
And  I  may  seem  to  heed  her  smile, 

And  seem  to  court  her  glance, 
But  my  heart  and  thought  still  wander  home, 

To  that  sweet  cottage  dance. 

Oft  when  I  sleep  a  melody 

Comes  stealing  o'er  my  brain, 
And  the  light  music  of  that  night 

Is  greeting  me  again. 
I  take  her  small  white  hand  in  mine, 

Amid  that  blissful  trance, 
And  one  more  vision  worth  a  world, 

I  led  her  forth  to  dance. 


I  tink  he's  been  koom-hunting,  I  tink  he's  goot  for  kooms, 
Cause  tere's  nothing  else  he's  good  for,  under  the  stars 

and  moon. 
Come  here  you  tarn  vagabond  —  vere  you  peen,  eh? 
Oh  !  mine  noshe,  you  shmell  vorse  than  one  schunk,  —  I 

sweeps  now  mit  ter  proom 
For  having  to  do  not  so  pad  people  as  schunks,  if  you 

rims  away  again, 
Me  puts  you  in  ter  papers,  and  you  ish  ruined  forever. 


SCKAP    BOOK.  55 

Little  Things.  —  Springs  arc  little  things,  but  they 
are  sources  of  large  streams ;  a  helm  is  a  little  thing,  but 
governs  the  course  of  a  ship ;  a  bridle-bit  is  a  little 
thing,  but  see  its  use  and  power ;  nails  and  pegs  are  lit- 
tle things,  but  they  hold  the  large  parts  of  buildings  to- 
gether ;  a  word,  a  look,  a  frown,  are  all  little  things,  but 
powerful  for  good  or  evil.  Think  of  this  and  mind  the 
little  things.  Pay  that  little  debt  —  'tis  promised  ;  redeem 
it,  if  it  is  a  shilling  ;  hand  it  over.  You  know  not  what 
important  event  hangs  upon  it.  Keep  your  word 
sacredly.  Keep  it  to  the  children ;  they  will  mark  it 
sooner  than  any  one  else,  and  the  effect  will  probably  be 
as  lasting  as  life.     Mind  the  little  things. 


If  a  soul  thou  would'st  redeem, 
And  lead  a  lost  one  back  to  God, 
Would'st  thou  a  guardian  angel  seem, 
To  one  who  long  in  sin  has  trod  ? 
Go  kindly  to  him  —  take  his  hand 
With  gentle  words  within  your  own, 
And  by  his  side  a  brother  stand, 
Till  all  the  demon  thou  dethrone. 

Mrs.  M.  Savage. 

The  first  fresh  love  never  dies  wholly,  it  lives  on 
through  pain  and  disappointment ;  often  when  the  heart 
is  crushed  and  all  its  sympathies  pressed  out,  this 
lingers  and  awakes,  and  shines  bright. 


56  jane  rowlhy's 

A  WISH. 

Oh  !  give  me  the  ocean's  houndless  plain, 

And  a  barque  to  plough  its  wild,  wild  waves, 

Give  me  the  mirth  of  the  trackless  main, 

As  it  roars  in  might  through  its  hollow  caves. 

And  give  me  the  voice  of  the  viewless  breeze, 

To  whistle  its  song  through  my  white  swelling  sails, 

And  play  in  its  glee  o'er  the  billowy  seas, 
Alternate  the  sport  and  the  prey  of  its  gales. 

Give  me  the  star-studded  diademed  night, 

With  its  myriad  of  glories  unveiled  to  the  view, 

Or  the  mild  maiden  moon,  with  her  silvery  face, 
Shining  forth  from  a  canopied  curtain  of  blue. 

And  give  me  the  freedom  to  ramble  and  roam, 
And  visit  each  region  of  sun  or  of  snow ; 

The  world  for  my  country,  my  barque  for  my  home, 
Heaven's  high  arch  above  me,  the  ocean  below. 


Flowers  that  bloom  to  wither  fast, 
Light  whose  beams  arc  soon  o'ercast, 
Friendship  warm,  but  not  to  last, 

Such  by  earth  are  given. 
►Seek  the  flowers  that  ne'er  shall  fade, 
Find  the  light  no  cloud  can  shade. 

Those  are  found  in  heaven. 


SCRAP  BOOK.  57 

»  FARE  THEE  WELL,  AND  IF  FOR  EVER." 

BY    LORD    BYRON. 

'Tis  done,  and  shivering  in  the  gale, 
The  bark  unfurls  her  snowy  sails, 
And  whistling  o'er  the  bending  mast, 
Loud  sings  on  high  the  fresh'ning  blast, 
And  I  must  go  from  this  land  begone, 
Because  I  cannot  love  but  one. 

But  would  I  be  what  I  have  been, 
And  could  I  see  what  I  have  seen, — 
Cuold  I  repose  upon  that  breast 
Which  once  my  warmest  wishes  blest, 
I  should  not  seek  another  zone, 
Because  I  cannot  love  but  one. 

'Tis  long  since  I  beheld  that  eye, 
That  gave  me  bliss  or  misery  ; 
And  I  have  striven  but  in  vain 
Never  to  think  of  it  again  ; 
For  though  I  fly  from  Albion, 
I  still  can  only  love  but  one. 

As  some  lone  bird  without  a  mate, 
My  weary  heart  is  desolate  ; 
I  look  around  and  cannot  trace 
One  welcome  smile  or  friendlv  face  ; 


58  jane  rowley's 

And  even  in  crowds  I'm  still  alone 
Because  I  cannot  love  but  one. 

And  I  will  cross  the  whitening  foam, 
And  I  will  seek  a  foreign  home. 
Till  I  forget  a  false,  fair  face, 
I  ne'er  shall  find  a  resting-place  ; 
My  own  dark  thoughts  I  cannot  shun, 
But  ever  love  and  love  but  one. 

The  poorest,  veriest  wretch  on  earth, 
Still  finds  some  hospitable  heart, 
Where  friendship,  or  love's  softer  glow 
May  smile  in  joy  or  soothe  in  woe. 
But  friend  or  lover  I  have  none, 
Because  I  cannot  love  but  one. 

I  go,  but  wheresoe'er  I  flee, 
There's  not  an  eye  will  weep  for  me, 
There's  not  a  kind,  congenial  heart 
Where  I  could  claim  the  meanest  part, 
Nor  thou  who  hast  my  hopes  nndone, 
Wilt  sigh,  although  I  love  but  one. 

To  think  on  every  early  scene, 
On  what  we  are,  and  what  we've  been  — 
Would  whelm  some  softer  hearts  with  woe 
But  mine,  alas  !  has  stood  the  blow, 


SCRAP    BOOK.  59 

Yet  still  beats  on  as  it  begun, 
And  never  truly  loved  but  one. 

And  who  that  dear,  loved  one  may  be, 
Is  not  for  vulgar  eyes  to  see  ; — 
And  why  that  love  was  early  crossed, 
Thou  knowest  best,  —  I  feel  the  most 
But  few  that  live  beneath  the  sun, 
Have  lived  so  long,  and  loved  but  one. 

I've  tried  another's  fetters,  too, 
With  charms  perchance  as  fair  to  view, 
And  I  would  fain  have  loved  as  well,  — 
But  some  unconquerable  spell 
Forbade  my  bleeding  heart  to  own 
A  kindred  care  for  aught  but  one. 

'Twould  soothe  to  take  one  lingering  view, 
And  bless  thee  in  my  last  adieu  ; 
Yet  wish  I  not  those  eyes  to  weep 
For  him  that  wanders  o'er  the  deep, 
Tho'  wheresoe'er  my  barque  may  roam, 
I  love  but  thee,  I  love  but  one. 


Home.  —  Keep  your  store  of  smiles  and  your  kindest 
feelings  for  home  ;  give  to  the  world  only  those  you  have 
to  spare. 


60  jane  rovvley's 

FROM  MOORE'S  SACRED  SONGS. 

The  bird  let  loose  in  eastern  skies, 

When  hastening  fondly  home, 
Nor  stoops  to  earth  her  wing,  nor  flies 

Where  idle  warblers  roam; 
But  high  she  shoots  through  air  and  light, 

Above  all  low  degree, 
Where  nothing  earthly  bounds  her  flight 

Nor  shadow  dims  her  way. 

So  grant,  my  God  !  from  every  care 

And  stain  of  fashion  free, 
Aloft  through  virtue's  purest  air, 

To  hold  my  course  to  thee  ; 
No  cloud  to  dim,  no  lure  to  stay 

My  soul  as  home  she  springs, 
Thy  sunshine  on  her  joyful  way, 

Thy  freedom  in  her  wingr. 


Modesty  is  not  only  an  ornament,  but  also  a  guard  to 
virtue.  It  is  a  kind  of  quick  and  delicate  feeling  into  the 
soul,  which  makes  her  shrink  and  withdraw  herself  from 
everything  that  has  danger  in  it.  It  is  such  an  exquisite 
sensibility,  as  warns  her  to  shun  the  first  appearance  of 
everything  which  is  hurtful. 


True  bravery  is  as  far  removed   from  recklessness  as 
it  is  from  timidity. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  6l 

THE  NIGHT  WALKER. 

BY   FRANK    FOXCROFT. 

In  the  prisoner's  dock  she  stands, 

Hardly  eighteen  years, 
Bringing  more  than  full  measure  of  toiling  and  tears 
With  her  young  life  seen  ; 
But  of  woes  I  ween, 
A  century's  time, 

Could  scarce  contain 
Her  record  of  crime 
And  want  and  pain. 

In  the  prisoner's  dock  she  stands  ; — 

Sneer  at  her, 

Jeer  at  her, 
Ye  of  the  soft  white  hands  ! 

Laugh  at  her, 

Scoff  at  her, 
Ye  of  the  titles  and  lands  ! 

Pity?  no  bit  of  it, 
Mercy  ?  no  whit  of  it. 
Take  her  away, 
Out  of  the  day, 
Out  of  the  light, 
Into  the  dark  of  the  prison  night, 


62  jane  rowley's 

But  where  is  the  man  who  betrayed  her? 

Is  no  guile  his? 
Where  is  the  man  who  hath  made  her 
Such  as  she  is? 
Go  to  the  haunts  of  fashion, 

To  the  very  uppermost  "  ten," 
Where  the  puppets  of  folly  and  passion, 

Are  made  to  appear  like  men. 
In  the  very  innermost  regions 

Of  that  most  hallowed  place, 
Surrounded  by  ladies  in  legions, 
Admiring  his  style  and  his  grace. 
You  will  rind  the  man 
Under  heaven's  ban, 
Though  he  be  not  under  the  laws  of  man. 

Ah,  well?  ah,  well!  there's  another  bar, 

In  a  higher  and  better  land, 
And  mercy  and  justice  mingled  are 
In  God's  own  strong  right  hand, 
And  when  betrayed  and  betrayer  meet, 

As  meet  they  must, 
Before  that  common  judgment  seat, 
God  will  be  just. 


Pittsjicld,  Mass.,  1868. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  63 

WOMAN:— A  DIALOGUE. 

HE. 

Like  the  moon  is  woman's  heart, 

Still  with  borrowed  lustre  shining  ; 
Like  the  ivy,  woman's  love, 

Where  it  fastens  undermining  ; 
Like  a  rock  you  may  defy, 

Truth  to  shake  or  reason  move  her, 
Like  the  rainbow  in  the  sky, 

Smiling  when  the  storm  is  over. 

SHE. 

Woman's  love  is  like  a  rock, 

Firm  it  stands  though  storms  surround  it, 
Like  the  ivy  on  the  oak, 

Even  in  ruin  clinging  round  it ; 
Like  the  moon  dispelling  night, 

Woman's  smiles  illumine  sorrow  ; 
Like  the  rainbow's  pledge  of  light 

Harbinger  of  joy  tomorrow. 

HE. 

Shrinking  from  the  wintry  blast, 

Bird  of  passage,  like  the  swallow, 
When  the  sunny  season's  past, 

Woman's  love  will  quickly  follow. 


64  jane  rowley's 

she. 

Like  the  swallow,  when  she's  seen, 
Pleasure's  blossoms  never  wither, 

Herald  of  a  sky  serene, 

Woman  brings  the  summer  with  her. 

HE. 

Like  the  roses  of  the  brake 

Thorns  in  every  blossom  shrouded ; 

Like  the  bosom  of  the  lake, 

By  each  passing  shadow  clouded. 

SHE. 

Like  the  roses  of  the  brake, 

Precious  though  their  bloom  be  faded  ; 
Like  the  bosom  of  the  lake 

By  reflected  darkness  shaded. 

HE. 

Like  a  picture  where  you  find 

Truth's  and  nature's  fair  resemblance, 

So  deceitful  woman's  mind 

Mocks  me  with  their  mimic  semblance. 

SHE. 

Like  a  picture  truly  fine, 

Half  hei  beauty  distance  covers  ; 


sc  RAP    BOOK.  65 


Touches  of  a  hand  divine, 
Every  nearer  view  discovers. 


HE. 


Like  the  reckless  mountain  tide, 
Every  breeze  the  surface  changing 

Like  the  bird  that  must  be  tied, 
If  you  would  prevent  its  ranging. 


SHE. 


Like  the  stream  upon  the  hill, 
Unconfined  it  runs  the  purer, 

Like  the  bird  a  cage  will  kill, 

But  kindness  win,  and  love  secure  her. 

,  HE. 

Like  the  harp  of  Erin's  sighs, 

Woman  wakes  the  soul  to  madness, 

Wild  and  doubtful  in  its  joy, 
Fatal  in  its  dangerous  sadness. 

SHE. 

Like  my  country's  minstrel  lyre, 
Waking  many  a  wild  emotion, 

Kindling  in  the  breast  a  fire 

Of  heavenly,  heartfelt,  pure  devotion. 


66  jane  rowley's 


UK. 


Like  the  sun  who  sheds  his  light 
On  the  fool  and  wise  in  common  ; 

Undistinguishingly  bright, 

Is  the  smile  of  faithless  woman. 


S1IK. 


Like  the  sun  dispersing  light, 
Life  and  joy  on  all  that's  human, 

Ever  warm  and  fixed  and  bright, 
Is  the  love  of  faithful  woman. 


Friendship. —  Friendship  hath  the  skill  and  observa- 
tion of  the  best  physician  ;  the  diligence  and  vigilance  of 
the  best  nurse  ;  and  the  tenderness  and  patience  of  the 
best  mother. 


How  sacred,  how  beautiful  is  the  feeling  of  affec- 
tion in  pure  and  guileless  bosoms!  The  proud  may 
sneer  at  it ;  the  fashionable  may  call  it  fable ;  the  sel- 
fish and  dissipated  may  effect  to  despise  it;  but  the 
holy  passion  is  surely  of  heaven,  and  is  made  evil  by 
the  corruptions  of  those  whom  it  was  to  bless  and 
preserve. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  67 

SHERIDAN'S   RIDE. 

BY    THOMAS    BUCHANAN    READ. 

Up  from  the  south  at  break  of  day, 
Bringing  to  Winchester  fresh  dismay, 
The  affrighted  earth  with  a  shudder  bore 
Like  a  herald  in  haste  to  the  chieftain's  door, 
The  terrible  grumble,  and  rumble,  and  roar, 
Telling  the  battle  was  on  once  more, 
And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

And  wider  .still  those  billows  of  war, 

Thundered  along  the  horizon's  bar, 

And  louder  yet  into  Winchester  rolled, 

The  roar  of  that  red  sea  uncontrolled, 

Making  the  blood  of  the  listener  cold, 

As  he  thought  of  the  stake  in  that  firey  play, 

And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

But  there  is  a  road  from  AYinchesler  town, 

A  good,  broad  highway,  leading  down  ; 

And  there,  through  the  flush  of  the  morning  light, 

A  steed,  as  black  as  the  steeds  of  night 

Was  seen  to  pass  as  with  eagle  flight, — 

As  if  he  knew  the  terrible  need, 

He  stretched  away  with  his  utmost  speed  ; 

Hills  rose  and  fell,  but  his  heart  was  gay, 

With  Sheridan  fifteen  miles  away. 


68  jane  rowley's 

Still  sprung  from  those  swift  hoofs  thundering  south, 

The  dust  like  the  smoke  from  the  cannon's  mouth, 

Or  the  trail  of  a  comet  sweeping  faster  and  faster, 

Forboding  to  traitor  the  doom  of  disaster; 

The  heart  of  the  steed  and  the  heart  of  the  master, 

Were  beating  like  prisoners  assailing  their  walls, 

Impatient  to  be  where  the  battle-field  calls  ; 

Every  nerve  of  the  charger  was  strained  to  full  play, 

With  Sheridan  only  ten  miles  away. 

Under  his  spurning  feet  the  road, 
Like  an  arrowy  Alpine  river  flowed, 
And  the  landscape  sped  away  behind, 
Like  on  ocean  flying  before  the  wind  ; 
And  the  steed  like  a  bark  fed  with  furnace  ire, 
Swept  on  with  his  wild  eyes  full  of  fire. 
But  lo  !   he  is  nearing  his  heart's  desire  — 
He  is  snuffing  the  smoke  of  the  roaring  fray, 
With  Sheridan  only  five  miles  away. 

The  first  the  general  saw  was  the  groups 

Of  stragglers,  and  then  the  returning  troops;  — 

What  was  done — what  to  do  —  a  glance  told  him  both  ; 

Then  striking  his  spurs  with  a  terrible  oath, 

He  dashed  down  the  lines  with  a  storm  of  huzzas, 

And  the  wave  of  retreat  stopped  its  course  there  because 

The  sight  of  the  master  compelled  it  to  pause. 

With  foam  and  with  dust  the  black  charger  was  gray  ; 


SCRAP    BOOK.  69 

By  the  flash  of  his  eye  and  his  red  nostril's  play, 
He  seemed  to  the  whole  great  army  to  say, 
"  I  have  brought  you  Sheridan  all  the  way 
Ftom  Winchester  down  to  save  the  day." 

Hurrah  !   hurrah  !  for  Sheridan  ! 
Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  for  horse  and  man  ! 
And  when  their  statues  are  placed  on  high, 
Under  the  uome  of  the  Union  sky, 
The  American  soldiers'  temple  of  fame, 
There  with  the  glorious  general's  name, 
Be  it  said  in  letters  both  bold  and  bright, — 

"  Here  the  steed  that  saved  the  day, 
By  carrying  Sheridan  into  the  fight, 

From  Winchester, —  twenty  miles  away." 


SCATTER  THE  GERMS  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL- 

BY    MRS.    I..    A.    COBB. 

Scatter  the  germs  of  the  beautiful ! 

By  the  way-side  let  them  fall. 
That  the  rose  may  spring  by  the  cottage  gate. 

And  the  vine  on  the  garden  wall ; 
Cover  the  rough  and  the  rude  of  earth 

With  a  veil  of  leaves  and  flowers, 
And  mark  with  the  opening  bud  and  cup 

The  march  of  summer  hours. 


70  jane  rowlev's 

Scatter  green  germs  of  the  beautiful 

In  the  holv  shrine  of  home  ; 
Let  the  pure  and  the  fair,  and  the  graceful  there, 

In  their  loveliest  lustre  come  ; 
Leave  not  a  trace  of  deformity 

In  the  temple  of  the  heart, 
But  gather  about  its  hearth  the  gems 

Of  nature  and  of  art. 

Scatter  the  germs  of  the  beautiful 

In  the  temple  of  our  God, — 
The  God  who  starred  the  uplifted  sky, 

And  flowered  the  trampled  sod  ; 
When  He  built  a  temple  for  Himself, 

And  a  home  for  His  princely  race, 
He  reared  each  arch  in  symmetry, 

And  curved  each  line  in  grace. 

Scatter  the  germs  of  the  beautiful 

In  the  depths  of  the  human  soul  ; 
They  shall  bud,  and  blossom  and  bear  the  fruit, 

While  the  endless  ages  roll  ; 
Plant  with  the  flowers  of  charity 

The  portals  of  the  tomb, 
And  the  fair  and  the  pure  about  your  path, 

In  paradise  shall  bloom. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  7r 

A   STREET  ARAB. 

BY    N.    G.    SHEPHERD. 

Ragged  the  jacket  and  trousers  he  wears, 

Ragged  the  shoes  on  his  feet ; 
For  shoe  or  jacket  little  he  cares, 

This  Arab  of  the  street. 
"  Pitching  pennies"  here  in  the  park, 

Along  with  a  busy  crowd, 
All  of  them  ragged  and  dirty  like  him, 

Wrangling  and  shouting  aloud. 

I  wonder  whether  he  has  a  home  ! 

This  ragged  urchin,  and  how 
lie  earns  the  coppers  he's  tossing  there 

With  those  other  Arabs  now  ? 
If  mother,  or  brother,  or  sister  has  he  ? 

If  ever  a  father  he  knew  ? 
If  he  sleeps  in  a  bed  like  you  and  me, 

And  eats  as  the  i"est  of  us  do  ? 

Scarcely  human  he  seems,  somehow, 

With  his  semi-savage  shout, 
As  he  gives  each  nickel  a  curious  toss, 

And  capers  wildly  about. 
Yet  the  same  God  made  him  that  made  us  all, 

The  God  that  dwells  above. 


72  jank   rowley's 

Who  watches  even  the  sparrows  fell, 
In  the  fulness  of  His  love. 

All  at  once,  as  twelve  o'clock  draws  near, 

Our  Arah  leaves  his  play. 
Gathers  together  what  nickels  are  his 

And  suddenly  darts  away. 
A  moment  more  and  his  shrill  voice  sounds, 

Shouting  the  news  in  the  street, 
With  fifty  more  like  a  pack  of  hounds, 

Following  close  at  his  feet. 

In  and  out  of  the  cars  he  springs, 

He  heeds  neither  hoofs  nor  wheels. 
His  ragged  feet  seems  gifted  with  wings, 

Like  famous  Mercury's  heels  ; 
Now  he  stops  a  moment  a  paper  to  sell 

To  some  one  passing  by, 
Then  away  he  goes  on  a  rapid  run, 

With  a  wild  halloo  and  cry. 

High  up  past  the  dizzy  roofs,  his  voice 

Ascends  on  its  skyward  wa)  . 
A  moving  shadow  he  flits  along 

In  the  garish  light  of  day. 
'Twixt  the  rows  of  buildings  on  cither  side, 

With  their  windows  staring  down 


SCRAP    BOOK.  73 


/>> 


Like  so  many  giants,  Argus-eyed, 
Sleeplessly  watching  the  town. 

I  wonder  if  ever  in  thought  he  sees, 

The  rows  of  buildings  fade ! 
If  ever  in  fancy  he  conjures  up 

The  desert  without  a  shade? 
If  ever,  winding  before  his  sight 

Long  caravans  appear  ? 
If  the  Bedouin  chiefs  of  the  sands  he  sees 

In  himself  and  those  others  here? 

For  to  me,  to-day  as  I  stand  in  the  park, 
Watching  them  here  as  they  play, 

Like  a  bright  mirage  in  the  distance  seen, 
Seem  the  buildings  on  Broadway. 


WOMAN. 


No  star  in  yonder  sky  that  shines, 

Can  light  like  woman's  eye  impart ; 
The  earth  holds  not  in  all  its  mines 

A  gem  so  rich  as  woman's  heart  ; 
Her  voice  is  like  the  music  sweet 

Poured  out  from  airy  harps  alone  ; 
Like  that  when  storms  more  loudly  beat, 

It  yields  a  clearer,  richer  tone. 


74  JANE  Rowley's 

And  woman's  love's  a  holy  light, 

That  brighter,  brighter  burns  for  aye  j 
Years  cannot  dim  its  radiance  bright, 

Nor  even  falsehood  quench  its  ray  ; 
But  like  the  star  of  Bethlehem 

Of  old,  to  Israel's  shepherds  given, 
It  marshals  with  its  steady  flame 

The  erring  soul  of  man  to  heaven. 

Willi  a  m  L  eggiit . 

A  holy  life  is  made  up  of  a  number  of  small  things. 
Little  words,  not  eloquent  speeches  or  sermons.  Little 
deeds,  nor  miracles,  nor  battles,  nor  one  great,  heroic 
act,  nor  mighty  martyrdom,  make  up  the  true  Christian 
life.  The  little  constant  sunbeam,  not  the  lightning. 
The  waters  of  Siloam,  "that  go  softly"  in  their  meek 
mission  of  refreshment,  not  the  "  waters  of  the  river  great 
and  many,"  rushing  down  in  torrents,  noise  and  force, 
are  the  true  symbols  of  a  holy  life.  The  avoidance  of 
little  evils,  little  sins,  little  inconsistencies,  little  weak- 
nesses, little  follies,  little  indiscretions,  and  imprudences  ; 
little  foibles,  little  indulgences  of  self  and  of  the  flesh  :  — 
the  avoidance  of  such  little  things  as  these  goes  far  at 
least  to  make  up  the  negative  beauty  of  life. 


Who  stabs  my  name,  would  stab  my  person,  too, 
Did  not  the  hangman's  axe  lie  in  the  way. —  Cro~vn. 


;1aJ^ 


SCRAP    BOOK.  75. 


AFFECTION. 


There  is  in  life  no  blessing  like  affection. 
It  soothes,  it  hallows,  elevates,  subdues, 
And  bringeth  down  to  earth  its  native  heaven  ; 
It  sits  beside  the  cradle  patient  hours, 
Whose  sole  contentment  is  to  watch  and  love  ; 
It  bendeth  o'er  the  death-bed  and  consoles 
Its  own  despair  with  words  of  faith  and  hope. 
Life  hath  nought  else  that  may  supply  its  place  ; 
Cold  is  ambition,  cold  is  vanity, 
And  wealth  an  empty  glitter,  without  love. 

Mtss  London. 


"  TURN  OUT." 

BY    MRS.    M.    A.    KIDDER. 

'Mid  the  hurry  and  the  strife, 
As  you  run  the  race  of  life, 

Never  put  your  friend  to  rout ; 
Never  trample  on  your  neighbor,- 
Though  it  cost  a  little  labor, 

Just  "  turn  out." 

It  may  go  against  the  grain, 
It  may  give  a  little  pain, 
If  you  put  it  to  the  test ; 


76  jane  rowley's 

But  you'll  find  the  pain  but  slight, 
Pass  him  gently  to  the  right 
It  is  best. 

Remember  that  he  too 

May  have  kind  thoughts  toward  you  ; 

And  if  he  should  nothing  loath, 
To  resolve  to  turn  aside, 
Then  the  margin  will  be  wide 

For  you  both. 

Run  and  let  run,  sir,  to  you 
As  a  maxim  may  be  new, 

And  a  trivial  one,  no  doubt ; 
But  'twould  save  a  world  of"  woe, 
If  we  all,  for  friend  or  foe, 

Would  »  turn  out." 


It  is  the  gift  of  poetry  to  hallow  every  place  in 
which  it  moves  ;  to  breathe  round  nature  an  odor  more 
exquisite  than  the  perfume  of  the  rose,  and  to  shed 
over  it  a  tint  more  magical  than  the  blush  of  morning. 


The  advantage  of  living  does  not  consist  in  length 
of  days,  but  in  the  right  Improvement  of  time.  As 
many  days  as  we  pass  without  doing  some  good,  are 
so  many  days  entirely  lost. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  "JY 

THE  CHORAL  WORKMAN'S  SONG. 

On  the  opening  of  the  Amsterdam  exhibition,  at  the  close  of  King 
Henry's  inaugural  speech,  the  folding  doors  into  the  nave  of  the  building 
were  thrown  open,  and  as  Prince  Henry  and  his  attendants  passed  through 
a  thousand  voices  burst  into  the  "  Choral  Workman's  Song."  The  fol- 
lowing translation  of  it  is  given  by  Mr.  Thurlow,  the  second  secretary  to 
her  Majesty's  Legation  at  the  Hague,  in  his  report  upon  the  Netherlands. 

No  monster  of  iron  on  gunpowder  fed, 
No  clangor  of  steel,  no  whizzing  of  lead 

Makes  the  blood  in  our  arteries  tingle  ; 
But  the  whirl  of  the  wheel,  and  the  whistle  of  steam, 
And  the  bubbling  hiss  of  the  seething  stream, 

Is  the  sound  where  our  sympathies  mingle. 

No  laurel  that  drips  with  the  bloom  of  the  brave, 
No  crown  that  hangs  over  the  conqueror's  grave, 

No  wreath  that  is  woven  in  weeping  ; 
The  olive  that  circles  the  forehead  of  toil, 
The  meed  of  the  master  of  metal  and  soil, 

Is  the  fruit  that  we  glory  in  reaping. 

Oh  !  the  rush  and  the  roar  of  the  fiery  steam  ! 

Oh  !  the  rush  and  the  shriek  of  the  bursting  steam  ! 

No  warrior's  clarion  is  louder. 
We,  too,  have  our  iron,  our  steel  and  our  lead, 
But  ours  is  living,  and  theirs  is  dead, 

And  the  music  of  peace  is  the  powder. 


^S  JANE    ROWLKY'S 

Then  a  song  shall  arise  in  melodious  might, 

To  God  who  has  severed  the  dark  from  the  light. 

And  the  work  and  the  workmen  created  ; 
By  the  play  of  the  muscles  he  holds  us  in  health, 
By  the  sweat  of  the  brow  can  endow  us  with  wealth, 

In  the  love  of  our  labor  elated. 

We  sow  for  the  weal  of  the  loved  ones  at  home, 
We  know  in  good  time  that  the  harvest  will  come, 

He  wins  who  has  honestly  striven  : 
Our  toil  is  the  salt  of  the  bread  of  to-day, 
And  the  food  of  our  heart  is  the  faith  that  can  say, — 

We,  too,  have  our  rest  and  our  heaven. 


ODE    OX    THE    RHINE'S     RETURNING     INTO 
GERMANY  FROM  FRANC  E. 

BY    HORACE    BINNEY    WALLACE. 

Oh  !  sweet  is  thy  current  by  town  and  by  tower, 
The  green  sunny  vale  and  the  dark  Linden  bower ; 
Thy  waves,  as  the  dimple,  smile  back  on  the  plain, 
And  Rhine,  ancient  river,  thou'rt  German  again  ! 

The  roses  are  sweeter  the  air  is  more  free, 
More  blythe  is  the  song  of  the  bird  on  the  tree  ; 
The  yoke  of  the  mighty  is  broken  in  twain. 
And  Rhine,  dearest  river,  thou  art  German  again ! 


SCRAP    BOOK.  J j 

The  land  is  at  peace  and  breaks  out  into  song, 
The  hills  in  their  echoes  the  cadence  prolong; 
The  sons  of  the  forest  take  up  the  glad  strain, 
"  Our  Rhine,  our  own  river,  is  German  again  !  " 

Thy  daughters,  sweet  river !  thy  daughters  so  fair, 
With  their  eyes  of  dark  azure,  and  soft  sunny  hair, 
Repeat  'mid  their  dances  at  eve  on  the  plain, 
"Our  Rhine,  our  own  river,  is  German  again!  " 


Work  is  the  iron  ploughshare  that  goes  over  the 
field  of  the  heart,  rooting  up  all  the  prettv  grasses 
and  the  beautiful,  hurtful  weeds  that  we  have  taken 
such  a  pleasure  in  growing,  laving  them  all  under, 
fair  and  foul  together,  making  plain,  dull-looking 
arable  land  for  neighbors  to  peer  at ;  until  at  night- 
time, down  in  the  deep  furrows,  the  angels  come  and 
sow.  A  man  who  can  give  up  dreaming  and  go  to 
his  daily  realities  —  who  can  smother  down  his  heart, 
its  love  or  woe,  and  take  to  the  hard  work  of  his  hand 
—  who  defies  fate,  and  if  he  must  die,  dies  fighting  to 
the  last  —  that  man  is  life's  best  hero. 


Independence.  —  A   strong   determination    to    place 
yourself  where  you  are  not  wanted. 


80  jane  rowley's 

A  PLEA  FOR  THE  DOVE. 

A  ''sport !  "  strip  off  the  thin  disguise, 
The  glamour  fashion  throws 

The  glitter  of  a  paltry  prize,  — 
And  see  how  vile  it  shows. 

Within  a  narrow  trap  is  pent 

A  little  gentle  bird, 
Whose  prison  pen  flies  open  when 

The  "  sportsman  "  gives  the  word. 

With  levelled  gun  the  gallant  shot 
Stands  thirty  feet  away, — 

Both  barrels  primed  —  his  spirit  hot, 
And  eager  for  the  fray. 

Alas  !  for  England's  chivalry, 

When  "  Lords  and  Commons  "  meet, 

And  in  a  race  of  blood  so  base, 
With  England's  Heir  compete  ! 

Poor  little  dove  !  the  odds  are  vast 

Against  thee  in  the  strife, 
And  yet  so  keen  within  thy  breast, 

God  set  the  love  of  life. 

Sometimes  the  gallant'sportman's'skill, 
The  trout  that  pulls  the  string, 


SCRAP    BOOK. 

And  twenty  scouts  will  fail  to  kill 
One  weak  defenceless  thing  ! 

Sometimes  it  falls  within  the  walls, 

To  writhe  awhile  and  die  ; 
Sometimes  with  entrails  pierced  and  torn. 

It  flutters  to  the  sky ; 

While  falling  from  the  sweet,  blue  heav'n, 

The  red  drops  stain  the  sward, 
As  though  its  tide  of  being  cried 

In  witness  to  the  Lord. 

Is  this  the  bird  whose  tribe  of  old 

The  harp  of  David  sings  ? 
Her  feathers  touched  with  yellow  gold 

And  silver  on  her  wings  ? 

Is  this  the  chosen  shape  in  which, 

As  sacred  records  tell, 
The  Holy  Ghost,  by  Jordan's  coast, 

On  Christ  the  Saviour  fell  ? 

Alex.  Butler  Hume. 


44  Come  on  !  "  as  the  man  said  to  his  tight  shoe. 
44  Come  in  !  "  as  the  spider  said  to  the  fly. 
44  You  make  me  blush,"  as  the  lobster  said  to  the  sauce- 
pan. 


82  jane  rowley's 

SIMPLICITY  OF  DRESS. 

Female  loveliness  never  appears  to  so  good  advan- 
tage as  when  set  oft'  with  simplicity  of  dress.  No  ar- 
tist ever  decks  his  angels  with  feathers  and  gaudy 
jewelry ;  and  our  dear  human  angels,  if  they  would 
make  good  their  title  to  that  name,  should  carefully 
avoid  ornaments  which  properly  belong  to  Indian  squaws 
and  African  princes.  These  tinsels  may  serve  to 
give  effect  on  the  stage,  but  in  daily  life  there  is  no 
substitute  for  the  charm  of  simplicity.  A  vulgar  taste 
is  not  to  be  disguised  by  gold  and  diamonds.  The 
absence  of  a  true  taste  and  real  refinement  of  delicacy, 
cannot  be  compensated  for  by  the  possession  of  the 
most  princely  fortune.  Mind  measures  gold,  but  gold 
cannot  measure  mind.  Through  dress  the  mind  may 
be  read,  as  through  the  delicate  tissue  the  lettered  page. 
A  modest  woman  will  dress  modestly  ;  a  really  refined 
and  intellectual  woman  will  bear  the  marks  of  careful 
selection  and  faultless  taste. 


A  Sublime  Truth.  —  Let  a  man  have  all  the  world 
can  give  him,  he  is  still  miserable  if  he  has  a  grovel- 
ling, unlettered,  undevout  mind.  Let  him  have  his 
gardens,  his  fields,  his  woods  ;  his  lawns  for  grandeur ; 
plenty  of  ornaments  and  gratifications ;  while  at  the 
same    time    if  God  is    not    in    all  his  thoughts,   he  will 


SCRAP    BOOK.  83 

yet  be  miserable.  And  let  another  have  neither  fields 
nor  gardens  ;  let  him  only  look  at  nature  with  an  en- 
lightened mind  —  a  mind  which  can  see  and  adore  the 
Creator  in  His  works  ;  can  consider  them  as  a  demon- 
stration of  His  power,  of  His  wisdom,  His  goodness, 
and  His  truth  —  the  man  is  great,  as  well  as  happier 
in  his  poverty,  than  the  other  in  his  riches.  The  one 
is  a  little  higher  than  a  beast,  the  other  a  little  lower 
than  an  angel. 


A  WOMAN'S  QUESTION. 

Before  I  trust  my  faith  to  thee, 
Or  place  my  hand  in  thine, 
Before  I  let  thy  future  give, 
Color  and  form  to  mine, 
Before  I  peril  all  to  thee, 
Question  thy  soul  to-night  for  me. 

I  break  all  slighter  bonds,  nor  feel 

A  shadow  of  regret ; 
Is  there  one  link  within  the  past, 
That  holds  thy  spirit  yet? 

Or  is  thy  faith  as  clear  and  free, 
As  that  which  I  can  pledge  to  thee  ? 

Does  there  within  thy  dimmest  dreams, 
A  possible  future  shine, 


^i 


84  Jane  Rowley's 

Wherein  thy  life  could  henceforth  breathe, 
Untouched,  unshared,  by  mine? 
If  so,  at  any  pain  or  cost, 
Oh  !  tell  me,  before  all  is  lost. 

Look  deeper  still.     If  thou  canst  feel 

Within  thy  inmost  soul, 
That  thou  hast  kept  a  portion  back, 
While  I  have  staked  the  whole  ; 
Let  no  false  pity  spare  the  blow, 
But  in  true  mercy  tell  me  so. 

Is  there  within  thy  heart  a  need 
That  mine  cannot  fulfil  ! 

One  chord  that  any  other  hand 

Could  better  wake  or  still  ? 

Speak  now,  lest  at  some  future  day 
My  whole  life  wither  or  decay. 

Lives  there  within  thy  nature  hid, 

The  demon  spirit  change? 
Shedding  a  passing  glory  still 
On  all  things  new  and  strange? 
It  may  not  be  thy  fault  alone,  — 
But  shield  my  heart  against  thy  own. 

Could'st  thou  withdraw  one  day, 
And  answer  to  my  claim, 


SCRAP    BOOK.  85 

That  fate,  and  not  to-day's  mistake, 
Not  thou  had  been  to  blame  ; 

Some  soothe  their  conscience  thus,  but  thou, 
O,  surely,  thou  wilt  warn  me  now. 

Nay,  answer —  I  dare  to  hear, 

The  words  would  come  too  late, 
Yet  I  would  spare  thee  all  remorse, 
So  comfort  thee  my  fate  ; 

Whatever  on  my  heart  may  fall, 
Remember  I  would  risk  it  all. 


NO  LETTERS. 

BY  JOHN    COLEMAN  DAW. 

No  letter — no  !  It  is  too  bad, 
Such  hopes  of  getting  one  I  had, 
Some  little  news  to  make  me  glad, 

I  long  expected. 
The  hopes  are  crushed  and  I  am  sad 

And  so  dejected. 

No  letter — no  !  Alackaday  ! 
And  I  from  home  so  long  away ; 
I  ask  ye,  friends,  to  tell  me,  pray, 

Am  I  ever  thought  on  ? 
Echo  answers — seems  to  say, 

You  are  forgotten. 


86  jane  rowley's 

No  letter !    'Tis  a  simple  thing, 
But  oh  !  a  letter  oft  will  bring 
Joy  to  those  who  wandering, 

Are  lone,  sad-hearted, 
And  make  them  with  affection  cling, 

To  friends  long  parted. 


Oh  !  there  are  looks  and  tones  that  dart, 
An  instant  sunshine  through  the  heart, 
As  if  the  soul  that  moment  caught, 
Some  treasure  it  through  life  had  sought. 

As  if  the  very  lips  and  eyes, 
Predestined  to  have  all  one's  sighs, 
And  never  be  forgot  again, 
Sparkled  and  spoke  before  us  then. 

So  came  thy  every  look  and  tone, 
When  first  on  me  it  breathed  and  shone  ; 
New,  as  if  come  from  other  spheres, 
Yet  welcome,  as  if  loved  for  years. 

Then  fly  with  me  if  thou  hast  known, 
No  other  flame,  nor  falsely  thrown 
A  gem  away  that  thou  hast  sworn, 
Should  ever  in  thy  heart  be  worn. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  87 

Come,  if  the  love  thou  hast  for  me, 
Is  pure  and  fresh  as  mine  for  thee ; 
Fresh  as  the  fountain  under  ground, 
When  first  'tis  by  the  lapwing  found. 

But  if  for  me  thou  dost  forsake, 
Some  other  maid  and  rudely  break, 
Her  worship'd  image  from  its  base, 
To  give  to  me  the  ruined  place, — 

Then  fare-thee-well,  I'd  rather  make, 
My  bower  upon  some  icy  lake, 
Where  thawing  suns  begin  to  shine, 
Than  trust  to  love  so  false  as  thine. 

Thomas  Moore. 


SONG. 

BY    THOMAS   MOORE. 

Rich  and  rare  were  the  gems  she  wore, 

And  a  bright,  gold  ring  on  her  wand  she  bore, 

But  oh  !  her  beauty  was  far  beyond 

Her  sparkling  gems,  or  snow-white  wand. 

44  Lady,  dost  thou  not  fear  to  stray, 
So  lone  and  lovely  through  this  bleak  way? 
Are  Erin's  sons  so  good  or  so  cold, 
As  not  to  be  tempted  by  woman  or  gold  ?  " 


88  jane   rowley's 

"  Sir  knight !  I  feel  not  the  least  alarm  ; 
No  son  of  Erin  will  offer  me  harm  ;  — 
For  though  they  love  woman  and  golden  store, 
Sir  knight,  they  love  honor  and  virtue  more." 

On  she  went,  and  her  maiden  smile, 
In  safety  lighted  her  round  the  green  Isle  ; 
And  blest  forever  is  she  who  relied 
Upon  Erin's  honor,  and  Erin's  pride. 


PEOPLE   WILL   TALK. 

You  may  get  through  the  world,  but  'twill  be  very  slow 
If  you  listen  to  all  that  is  said  as  you  go. 
You'll  be  worried,  and  fretted,  and  kept  in  a  stew, 
For  meddlesome  tongues  must  have  something  to  do, — 
And  people  will  talk. 

If  quiet  and  modest  you'll  have  it  presumed 
That  your  humble  position  is  only  assumed  ;  — 
You're  a  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing,  or  else  you're  a  fool, 
But  don't  get  excited,  keep  perfectly  cool, — 
For  people  will  talk. 

And  then  if  you  show  the  least  boldness  of  heart, 
Or  a  slight  inclination  to  take  your  own  part, 
They  will  call  you  an  upstart,  conceited  and  vain, 
But  keep  straight  ahead,  don't  stop  to  complain, — 
For  people  will  talk. 


f 


SCRAP    BOOK.  89 

If  thread-bare  your  dress,  or  old-fashioned  your  hat, 
Some  one  surely  will  take  notice  of  that, 
And  hint  rather  strong  that  you  can't  pay  your  way, 
But  don't  get  excited  whatever  they  say, — 
For  people  will  talk. 

If  you  dress  in  the  fashion,  don't  think  to  escape, 
For  they  criticise  then  in  a  different  shape  ; 
You're  ahead  of  your  means,  or  your  tailor's  unpaid, 
But  mind  your  own  business,  there's  nought  to  be  made, 
For  people  will  talk. 

Now  the  best  way  to  do,  is  to  do  as  you  please, 
For  your  mind,  if  you  have  one,  will  then  be  at  ease ; 
Of  course  you  will  meet  with  all  sorts  of  abuse, 
But  don't  think  to  stop  them,  it's  not  any  use, — 


For  people  will  talk. 


IbC,— 


CAPRICE. 

Love  is  a  bird  of  summer  skies,  /V«  ri  ' 

From  clouds  and  from  winter  he  soon  departs, 

He  basks  in  the  beams  of  good-humored  eyes, 
And  delights  in  the  warmth  of  open  hearts  ; 

But  when  he  has  once  found  chill  and  rain, 

He  seldom  returns  to  that  bower  again. 

Harriot's  brow  was  passing  fair, 

And  love  in  the  shape  of  a  mortal  sprite, 


90  JANE    ROWLEYS 

Came  to  bask  in  the  sunshine  there, 

And  plumed  his  soft  wings  for  delight ; 
But  a  wintry  cloud  would  oft  come  o'er, 

And  then  for  a  time, 

Without  reason  or  rhyme, 
The  sun  would  shine  no  more. 

It  chanced  in  one  of  those  winter  showers, 

A  cloud  pass'd  by, 

And  no  one  knew  why, 
And  frightened  poor  love  from  his  garden  of  flowers. 
He  wandered  in  sadness  away,  away, 

Till  he  came  to  a  bower  that  stood  hard  by. 
Here  all  was  a  sunny,  summer  day, 
And  never  a  cloud  came  o'er  that  eye, 

But  morn  and  night, 

It  beamed  ever  bright, 
With  spirit,  and  joy,  and  courtesy. 

He  laid  himself  down,  the  hours  flew  o'er, 
He  thought  of  the  spot  he  had  left  no  more, 
For  all  was  here, 
Without  shadow  or  fear. 
And  each  moment  was  sweet  as  the  one  before. 
"No  matter,"  said  she,  "  let  him  wander  awhile, 
I  can,  when  I  please,  bring  him  back  with  a  smile, 
But  ladies  who  trust  so  much  to  their  power, 


SCRAP    BOOK.  91 

To  recover  the  heart,  their  caprice  has  lost, 
Will  prove  in  many  a  hitter  hour, 

The  danger  ot  playing  with  love  to  their  cost. 

Many  a  day  and  week  passed  by, 

And  Harriot  though  she  would  not  tell, 
That  she  loved  the  wanderer  much  and  well, 

Drew  many  a  secret  sigh  ; 

And  she  managed  to  get  it  conveyed  to  the  swain, 
By  some  kind  friend  in  a  roundabout  way, 

That  if  he  thought  proper  to  seek  her  again, 
The  weather  in  future  might  be  more  gay. 

Love  declined  with  a  smile,  "  I  thank  you  my  dear, 
I'm  perfectly  happy  and  free  from  care, 

I  never  saw  other  than  summer  here, 
And  why  run  the  risk  of  winter  there." 


If  happiness  has  not  her  seat  and  centre  in  the  breast, 
We  may  be  wise,  or  rich,  or  great,  but  never  can  be  blest. 

Burns. 


ODD   ENOUGH. 

An  Irishman  is  never  at  peace  but  when  he's  fighting. 
An  Englishman  is  never  happy  but  when  he's  miserable. 
A  Scotchman  never  at  home  but  when  he's  abroad. 


£2  JANE    ROWLEY  S 

UNCLE   TOM'S   GLIMPSE   OF   GLORY. 

Gentle  as  glideth  the  glad  light  of  day, 

Little  Evangeline  passes  away  ; 
No  more  her  feet  through  the  flowers  will  roam, 

Softly  hut  surely  she  neareth  her  home. 

Now  all  her  loved  ones  she  calls  round  her  bed, 
And  gives  each  a  curl  from  her  fair  drooping  head, 

And  bids  them  remember  to  meet  her  above, 

And  Him  who  so  loves  them,  forget  not  to  love. 

Why  seeks  the  veranda  the  good  Uncle  Tom, 

And  leaves  his  own  cabin,  though  midnight  has  come? 

He  knoweth  the  Bridegroom  ere  long  will  be  there, 
And  watcheth  and  waiteth  till  He  shall  appear. 

For  oh  !    when  He  cometh  and  taketh  His  own, 

He  knows  that  the  gates  will  be  wide  open  thrown. 

He  may  catch  of  the  world  without  sorrow  and  sin, 
A  glimpse  of  the  glory  as  Eva  goes  in. 


And  what  is  friendship  but  a  name, 

A  charm  that  lulls  to  sleep, 
A  shade  that  follows  wealth  or  fame, 

And  leaves  the  wretch  to  weep. 
And  love  is  still  an  emptier  sound, 

The  modern  fair  one's  jest, 
For  love  is  only  found, 

To  warm  the  turtle's  nest. —  Oliver  Goldsmith. 


\ 


SCRAP    BOOK.  93 

HONOR  TO   BERGH. 

In  the  wind-swept  street,  where  the  stately  form, 
Meets  the  brunt  of  the  fiercest  storm, 
Braving  the  fury  of  sleet  and  rain, 
To  lighten  the  burden  of  helpless  pain. 
There  should  the  fair  white  temple  rise, 
Lifting  his  name  to  the  bending  skies, 
Showing  the  honor  his  work  has  won, 
And  the  city's  praise  of  her  noble  son  ! 

Well  may  we  offer  him  homage  here  ! 
His  heavenly  Master  holds  him  dear, 
Through  the  tender  pity  his  soul  has  shown 
To  the  hopeless  grief  of  the  dumb  beast's  moan. 
He  toils  for  the  Master  none  the  less, 
That  his  care  has  given  to  the  mute  distress, 
Of  the  patient  creature  whose  years  of  pain 
Attest  to  their  Maker  their  greed  of  gain. 

His  life's  great  lesson  has  swayed  the  land, 
And  safe  in  the  grasp  of  his  outstretched  hand, 
He  holds  the  rights  that  his  country  yields 
To  the  dumb  surf  tilling  her  fertile  fields. 
No  grateful  glance  of  meek  surprise, 
Can  he  hope  to  win  from  their  saddened  eyes  ; 
But  the  merciful  deeds  of  his  days  are  set, 
As  gems  in  a  heaven-kept  coronet ! 


94  JANE    ROWLEYS 

The  smile  of  God  for  a  human  frown, 
For  earthly  service  a  saintly  crown  ; 
For  evil  defeated  and  wrong  redressed, 
A  spirit  soothed  and  a  heart  at  rest ! 
This  the  reward  of  the  task  must  be, 
Since  the  loving  eye  of  his  God  can  see, 
What  our  human  vision  may  faintly  scan, 
The  Angel  of  Mercy  above  the  man  ! 


ONLY  A  DOG. 

The  writer  of  the  following  beautiful  poem  is  Mrs.  E.  J.  Nickeraoo, 
one  of  the  two  proprietors  of  the  New  Orleans  Picayune. 

"  Only  a  dog '  "  you  wonder  why 
I  grieve  so  much  to  see  him  die, 

Ah  !  if  you  knew 
How  true  a  friend  a  dog  can  be, 
And  what  a  friend  he  was  to  me 
When  friends  were  few  ! 

"  Only  a  dog  !  "  —  "a  beast !  "  you  sneer, 
"  Not  worthy  a  sigh  or  tear." 
Speak  not  to  me 
Such  falsehood  of  my  poor,  dumb  friend, 
While  I  have  language  to  defend 
His  memory. 


SCRAP     BOOK. 


95 


Through  ups  and  downs,  through  thick  and  thin, 
My  boon  companion  he  has  been 

For  years  and  years. 
He  journeyed  with  me  miles  and  miles, 
I  gave  him  frowns,  I  gave  him  smiles, 

And  now  sad  tears. 

Before  my  children  came,  his  white, 
Soft  head  was  pillowed  every  night 

Upon  my  breast. 
So  let  him  lie  just  one  time  more, 
Upon  my  bosom  as  before, 

And  take  his  rest. 

And  when  a  tenderer  love  awoke, 
The  first  sweet  word  my  baby  spoke 

Was  "  Ma-t,  our  Mat !  " 
Could  I  no  other  reason  tell, 
My  mother  heart  would  love  you  well 

For  only  that. 

Together  boy  and  dog  have  laid 
Upon  my  lap,  together  played 

Around  my  feet. 
Till  laugh  and  bark  together  grew 
So  much  alike  I  scarcely  knew 

Which  was  most  sweet. 


96  jane  rowley's 

Ah  !  go  away  and  let  me  cry, 

For  now  you  know  the  reason  why 

I  loved  him  so. 
Leave  me  alone  to  close  his  eyes, 
The  look  so  wistful  and  so  wise, 

Trying  to  know. 

At  garden  gate  or  open  door, 
You'll  run  to  welcome  me  no  more, 

Dear  little  friend. 
You  were  so  kind,  so  good  and  true, 
I  question,  looking  down  on  you, — 

Is  this  the  end? 

Is  there  for  you  "  no  other  side  "  ? 
No  home  heyond  death's  chilly  tide, 

And  heavy  fog, 
Where  meekness  and  fidelity 
Will  meet  reward,  although  you  be 

Only  a  dog? 


It  is  not  enough  to  be  a  man  ;  the  responsibility  of 
manhood  must  be  discharged.  The  foot  must  do  the 
foot's  work,  and  leave  the  eye  to  do  its  own  business. 
A  flower  is  useful,  though  it  does  not  grow  fruit. 
Gladly  I  proclaim  the  usefulness  of  beauty.  A  flower 
has  many  a' time  opened  the  very  heavens  to  my  aching 


SCRAP    BOOK.  97 

heart.  It  has  spoken  to  me  of  purity  and  simplicity,  and 
frailty,  and  mortality,  and  dependence.  Was  it  useless 
because  it  gave  me  neither  wine  nor  corn  ?  Truly  not.  It 
did  its  work,  and  no  angel  could  do  more.  —  Doctor 
Parker. 


THE  BRIGHT,  SILVER  LILY. 

The  bright,  silver  lily,  to  love  I  compare, 
But  never  was  lily  to  me  half  so  fair, 
So  fragrant,  so  blooming,  so  chaste,  or  so  meek, 
As  the  rose  that  is  blooming  on  modesty's  cheek. 

I  have  seen  the  sweet  blush  of  the  fresh,  risen  morn, 
I  have  seen  the  sweet  cowslip  deep  under  the  thorn, 
But  the  beauty  I  love,  and  the  charmer  I  seek, 
Is  the  rose  that  is  blooming  on  modesty's  cheek. 

They  say  there's  a  charm  in  the  love-beaming  eye, 
They  say  there's  a  charm  in  the  love-breathing  sigh, 
But  where  is  the  charm  her  eye  would  bespeak, 
If  the  rose  is  not  blooming  on  modesty's  cheek? 

If  beauty  is  charming  I'll  bend  at  its  shrine, 
Perhaps  I  might  own  the  fair  nymph  is  divine, 
But  the  beauty  I  love,  and  the  charmer  I  seek, 
Is  the  rose  that  is  blooming  on  modesty's  cheek. 


98  jane  kowley's 

I'D  BE  A  BUTTERFLY. 

SUNG    BY    MISS    KELLY. 

I'd  be  a  butterfly  born  in  a  bower, 

Wbere  roses,  and  lilies  and  violets  meet, 
Roving  forever  from  flower  to  flower, 

And  kissing  all  buds  that  are  pretty  and  sweet. 
I'd  never  languish  for  wealth  or  for  power, 

I'd  never  sigh  to  see  slaves  at  my  feet ; 
I'd  be  a  butterfly,  born  in  a  bower, 

Kissing  all  buds  that  are  pretty  and  sweet. 
I'd  be  a  butterfly,  I'd  be  a  butterfly, 
Kissing  all  buds  that  arc  pretty  and  sweet. 

O  !  could  I  pilfer  the  wand  of  the  fairy, 

I'd  have  a  pair  of  those  beautiful  wings  ; 
Their  summer  day's  ramble  is  sportive  and  airy, 

Thev  sleep  in  a  rose  when  the  nightingale  sings  ; 
Those  who  have  wealth  must  be  watchful  and  wary. 

Power,  alas  !   nought  but  misery  brings. 
I'd  be  a  butterfly  sportive  and  airy, 

Rocked  in  a  rose  when  the  nightingale  sings, 
I'd  be  a  butterfly,  I'd  be  a  butterfly, 
Rocked  in  a  rose  when  the  nightingale  sings. 

What,  though  you  tell  me,  each  gay  little  rover, 

Shrinks  from  the  breath  of  the  first  autumn  day, 
Surely  'tis  better  when  summer  is  over 


SCRAP    BOOK.  99 

To  die,  when  all  fair  things  are  fading  away  ; 
Some  in  life's  winter  may  toil  to  discover, 
Means  of  procuring  a  weary  delay, — 

I'd  be  a  butterfly  living  a  rover,  p       p 

Dying  when  fair  things  are  fading  away. 
I'd  be  a  butterfly,  I'd  be  a  butterfly, 
Dying  when  fair  things  are  fading  away. 

SONG. 

KINLOCK    OF   KINLOCK. 

How  oft  have  I    marked   the   pale    moon-beams  whilst 
sailing, 
Out  over  the  waves  of  a  dark  rolling  sea. 
It  softened  my  heart  with  the  tenderest  feeling, 

To  know  that  those  moonbeams  were  smiling  on  thee. 
And  then  my  heart 
Would  anxious  start, 
As  from  your  arms 
I  rushed  away 
At  honor's  call,  far,  far  from  all, 
Whose  smile  of  love  had  cheered  my  way. 

But  now  I  have  ceased  all  such  useless  repining, 
Since  hope  fills  my  heart  with  the  promise  of  joy, 
While  ths  sunshine  of  pleasure  around  me  is  shining, 
None  but«you,  my  dear  girl,  my  ideas  employ. 


ioo  jane  rowley's 

Though  far  from  thee 

I'm  forced  to  be, 

Yet  when  I  reach 

My  native  shore, 
I'll  never  roam,  so  far  from  home, 
No,  never  leave  my  charmer  more.  «** 


AT  THE  TOMB. 


*\ 


GREENWOOD,    DEC.    4,    1872. 
[From  the  Chicago  Evening  Post.] 

Not  they  alone 
Whose  orphaned  hearts  are  bleeding  by  his  bier, 
Broken,  distraught,  undone, 

Are  weeping  here  ! 
Not  they  whose  lives  in  nearness  grown, 

Make  answering  moan, 
And  hither  follow,  blankly  led, 
To  whitely  gaze  upon  his  lowly  bed  ! 
These  but  his  household  wards ! 
Behind  in  mute  dismay, 
Rank  after  rank,  in  desolate  array, 

Stretches  the  army  of  his  mourning  guards,        r. 
A  continent  away  !  1as~ 

But  'tis  no  njirfital  host !  rff-^ 
No  blood-dewed  fields,  or  pillaged  homes  the  boast, 


y 


SCRAP    BOOK.  IOI 

With  ravaged  hearts  for  cost ! 

No,  (witness,  God!) 
Was  his  the  leadership  of  hlood, 

Or  hate,  or  spleen,  or  woe  ! 

For  these  he  struck  no  blow. 
His  was  the  championship  of  light! 

The  fields  he  fought, — 

The  sounding  victories  he  wrought, 
Were  fields  and  victories  of  right, 

Weaponed  of  truth,  of  honor,  reason,  thought! 

And  this  his  mourning  host, 
Still  white  and  cold  as  with  December  frost, 
And  dazed  and  numb,  as  if  of  country  lost, — 

The  drooping  heads  and  trembling  hands, 

That  clasp  and  stretch  away  across  the  lands. 
These  are  the  witnesses  that  here, 

Beside  his  mighty  bier, 

Stricken,  and  bowed  and  dumb,  — 
To  plead  for  him  what  he  bequeathed  them,  come, 

Come  and  carve  it  on  his  tomb  ! 

The  weak  he  lifted  up, 
The  thirsting  soul  he  gave  the  cooling  cup, 

The  bound  whose  chains  he  broke, 
The  wronged  he  righted  with  his  giant  stroke, 

The  suffering  poor  he  fed, 

The  wayward  souls  to  better  paths  he  led, 


102  JANE    ROWLEY  S 

Them  he  found  brutes,  and  moulded  into  men, 
All,  all  whose  paths  he  lit  with  glowing  pen 

Are  here  to  swell  the  throng, 

He  lived  and  wrought  among, 

And  suffered  to  make  strong  ! 

Be  cheered,  oh  !  aching  hearts, 

That  orphaned  are  no  more  ! 
Through  tears  look  up  and  see, 
The  millions  that  he  saved  are  parents  unto  thee  ! 

Behold  the  balm  they  pour  ! 

Through  all  the  world 
Tread  the  great  host  that  see  and  share  your  smarts, 
And  walk  beside  you  with  their  banners  furled, 
Where  gleams  the  goal  he  sought  —  the  better  day, 
Now  as  of  old  'tis  his  to  lead  the  way, — 

To  smooth  the  rugged  road,  — 
To  go  before  and  plead  for  them  who  stay,  — 

To  ease  their  heavy  load, 

And  cheer  them  on  to  God ! 

D.  Blakely, 


A  SWARM  OF  B'S  WORTH  HIVING. 

B  patient,  B  prayerful,  B  humble,  B  mild, 
B  wise  as  a  Solomon,  B  meek  as  a  child  ; 
B  studious,  B  thoughtful,  B  loving,  B  kind, 
Beware  you  make  matter  subervient  to  mind  ; 


scrap  book.  ro3 

B  cautious,  B  prudent,  B  trustful,  B  true, 

B  courteous  to  all  men,  B  friendly  with  few  ; 

B  temperate  in  argument,  pleasure  and  wine, 

B  careful  of  conduct,  of  money  and  time  ; 

B  cheerful,  B  grateful,  B  hopeful,  B  firm, 

B  peaceful,  benevolent,  B  willing  to  learn  ; 

B  courageous,  B  gentle,  B  liberal,  B  just, 

Be  aspiring,  B  humble,  because  thou  art  dust ; 

B  penitent,  circumspect,  B  sound  in  the  faith, 

B  active,  devoted,  B  faithful  till  death  ; 

B  honest,  B  holy,  B  transparent  and  pure, 

B  dependent,  B  Christlike,  and  you'll  be  secure. 


A  BLACKSMITH  INTERVIEWED. 

BY  JAMES    MAURICE    THOMPSON. 

Horny  hands  and  swarthy  face, 

Burliest  of  a  burly  race, 

The  Saxon  blacksmith  took  his  place 

Beside  his  anvil :   "  Sir,"  said  I, 

"  They  say  you've  laid  a  fortune  by  ; 

Why  still  your  hard  vocation  ply  ?  " 

"  Stranger,"  said  he,  "  I  see  your  plan, 
A  prying,  interviewing  man, 
Come  to  find  out  all  you  can, 


io4  jane  rowley's 

And  put  it  in  the  papers  ;  well, 
Yon  see  I  did  quit  work  a  spell, 
Till  Tom  Sparks  came  to  Battledell ; 

Tom  Sparks,  the  blacksmith  over  there, 
At  t'other  corner  of  the  square, 
And  folks  said  I  wa'nt  anywhere. 

That  this  Tom  Sparks  could  beat  me  blind, 

At  blacksmith  work  of  any  kind, 

Especially  at  putting  on  horses'  shoes  behind  !  " 

The  speaker  paused,  and  breathed  a  spell, 
And  from  his  eyes  the  sparks  that  fell, 
Lit  the  bravest  face  in  Battledell. 

"  Stranger,  I  don't  care  what  you  say, 
I'm  rather  odd,  I've  got  my  way, 
I'll  get  on  top,  and  there  I'll  stay. 

That  is,  I  don't  care  what  the  loss  is, 
Learn  my  trade  over,  work  under  bosses, 
Or  beat  Tom  Sparks  a  shoeing  horses  !  " 

There  is  a  lesson,  learn  it  well, 
Caught  in  the  story  that  I  tell, 
Of  that  proud  smith  of  Battledell. 

He  had  a  soul  the  type  of  those, 
To  whom  success  forever  goes, 
From  whom  the  victor's  laurel  grows. 


SCRAP    HOOK.  IO5 

Such  wills  as  his  have  caught  the  world, 
And  held  it  fast  when  thrones  were  hurled 
Together,  and  the  red  flames  curled 

Above  the  wreck.     When  Caesar  fell 
No  grander  spirit  said  farewell 
Than  had  the  smith  of  Battledell. 


WOMEN  IN  CONVERSATION. 

It  is  their  eminent  domain.  There  is  good  deal  of 
banter  afloat  on  the  subject,  and  one  might  easily  sup- 
pose that  our  women  were  given  to  talk  ;  but  nothing  is 
furthei  from  the  truth.  Their  fault  in  society  is  that  they 
do  not  talk.  They  are  timid,  not  socially,  but  in- 
tellectually. They  are  afraid  to  imbibe,  or  to  cherish, 
or  to  enunciate  ideas.  They  distrust  their  own  capaci- 
ties and  acquirements,  and  have  mistrusted  them  so  long 
and  so  sincerely,  that  the  mistrust  presently  becomes 
final  and  fatal.  They  have  too  much  sense  to  be  silly, 
and  too  little  power  to  be  self- forgetful,  so  they  take  a 
secondary  place  when  they  ought  to  be  in  the  van.  It  is 
not  oppression  on  the  one  part  nor  superiority  on  the 
other,  but  the  natural  effect  of  a  long  line  of  causes. 
Women  not  only  fear  men,  but  they  fear  each  other. 

Gail  Hamilton. 


io6  jane  rowlev's 

ERIC  AND   AXEL. 

BY    BAYARD    TAYLOR. 

Though  they  never  divided  my  meat  or  wine, 

Yet  Eric  and  Axel  are  friends  of  mine  ; 

Never  shared  my  sorrow  nor  laughed  with  my  glee, 

Yet  Eric  and  Axel  are  dear  to  me  ; 

And  more  faithful  comrades  no  man  ever  knew, 

Than  Eric  and  Axel,  the  fearless,  the  true  ! 

When  I  hit  the  target,  they  feel  no  pride, 

When  I  spin  with  the  waltzers,  they  wait  outside  ; 

When  the  holly  of  yule-tide  hangs  in  the  hall, 

And  kisses  are  freest,  they  care  not  at  all ; 

When  I  sing  they  are  silent, —  I  speak,  they  obey, — 

Eric  and  Axel,  my  hope  and  my  stay. 

They  wait  for  my  coming,  they  know  I  shall  come, 
When  the  dancers  are  faint,  and  the  fiddlers  numb, 
With  a  shout  of  »  Ho,  Eric  !  Axel,  ho  !  " 
As  we  skim  the  wastes  of  the  Norrland  snow, 
And  their  frozen  breath  to  a  silvery  gray 
Turns  Eric's  raven  and  Axel's  bay. 

By  the  bondehus  and  the  herregoard, 
O'er  the  glossy  pavement  of  firth  and  ford, 
Through  the  tall  fir-woods  that  like  steel  are  drawn, 
On  the  broadening  red  of  the  rising  dawn, 


SCRAP    BOOK.  IO7 

Till  one  low  roof,  where  the  hills  unfold, 
Shelters  us  all  from  the  angry  cold. 

• 

I  tell  them  the  secret  none  else  shall  hear, — 
I  love  her,  Eric,  I  love  her  dear ; 
I  love  her,  Axel,  wilt  love  her,  too, 
Though  her  eyes  are  dark  and  mine  are  blue  ? 
She  has  eyes  like  yours  so  dark  and  clear ;" — 
Eric  and  Axel  will  love  my  dear  ! 

They  would  speak  if  they  could,  but  I  think  they  know, 

Where,  when  the  moon  is  thin,  they  shall  go  ; 

To  wait  awhile  in  the  sleeping  street, 

To  hasten  away  upon  snow-shod  feet, 

Away  and  away,  e'er  the  morning  star 

Touches  the  tops  of  the  spires  of  Calmar. 

Per,  the  merchant  may  lay  at  her  feet 
His  Malaga  wine,  and  his  raisins  sweet, 
Brought  in  his  ships  from  Portugal  land, 
And  I  am  as  bare  as  the  palm  of  my  hand, 
But  she  sighs  for  me  and  she  sighs  for  you, 
Eric  and  Axel  my  comrades  true. 

You  care  not,  Eric,  for  gold  or  wine, 

You  care  not,  Axel,  for  show  or  shine, 

But  you  care  for  the  touch  of  the  hand  that's  dear, 


io8  jane  rowley's 

And  the  voice  that  fondles  yon  through  the  ear, 
And  you  shall  save  us,  through  storm  and  snow, 
When  she  calls,  "  Ho,  Eric  !  "    and  "  Axel,  ho  !  " 


BE   BRAVE. 


Be  brave  to  do  right.  There  are  always  men 
enough  and  women  enough  in  the  world  who  have  no 
wish  to  see  the  right  vindicated ;  who  pause  on  the 
low  plains  of  selfishness,  and  will  not  so  much  as  lif 
their  eyes  toward  the  hills  where  truth  stands.  The 
glowing  splendor  of  that  future  which  is  coming  nearer 
every  day,  and  which  is  to  be  a  glorious  kingdom  which 
truth  will  occupy  for  her  own,  has  no  power  over 
their  minds  or   hearts. 

Truth  is  like  the  blowing  of  the  strong  winds  through 
the  universe.  It  will  uncover  deceit;  it  will  strip  off 
the  mantle  of  pretence  ;  it  will  scatter  the  chaff  from 
the  golden  grain.  And  how  much  nobler  to  stand  be- 
fore the  blast,  and  have  our  lives  purified  of  the  dross 
of  our  weak  thoughts,  than  to  hide  until  the  storm  is 
past,  and  then  shine  in  false  light.  Be  brave  to  do 
whatsoever  our  hands  find  to  do  without  murmurs  or 
complaint.  If  it  is  our  lot  to  toil  for  daily  bread,  let  us 
labor  cheerfully,  glad  God  has  given  us  health  and 
strength  ;    and   if  he   grants   us  neither  of  these,    let   us 


SCRAP    BOOK.  IO9 

be  brave  to  suffer  in  silence,  and  let  only  our  songs 
find  a  way  out  into  the  world. 

In  our  pleasant  childhood  we  are  like  birds  in  the 
nest ;  but  our  Father  has  given  us  wings,  and  sooner  or 
later  we  must  learn  to  fly-  Whatever  it  costs  us  we 
must  not  stop  to  count  that,  for  we  are  in  his  hands,  and 
as  our  day,  so  shall  our  strength  be. 

Have  courage  to  be  honest ;  the  world  has  great  need 
of  honest  women  just  now. 

Be  brave  to  wear  calico  when  your  neighbor  wears 
silk  ;  to  live  in  a  little  house,  when  your  friend  lives  in  a 
large  one  ;  to  labor  in  your  kitchen,  when  your  sisters 
sit  in  their  parlors  with  folded  hands. 

It  is  not  the  opinion  the  throng  led  by  fashion  and 
love  of  ease,  which  is  to  ennoble  us,  but  the  verdict  of 
our  own  consciences. — AUcna  Audly. 


Our  ingress  into  the  world  was  marked  and  sore, 

Our  progress  through  it  was  trouble  and  care, 

Our  egress  out  of  it  God  knows  where. 

The  better  we  do  here,  the  better  we'll  do  there. 

If  I  would  preach  for  ever  I  could  tell  you  no  more. 


CAT. 

An  animal  that  old  maids  love, 

Because  it  gives  out  sparks  when  rubbed. 


no 


JANE    ROWLEY  S 


PRAYERS   I   DON'T   LIKE. 

I  do  not  like  to  hear  him  pray, 

Who  loans  at  twenty-five  per  cent 
For  then  I  think  the  borrower  may 

Be  pressed  to  pay  for  food  and  rent ; 
And  in  that  Book  we  all  should  heed, 

Which  says  the  lender  shall  be  blest, 
As  sure  as  I  have  eyes  to  read, 

It  does  not  say,  "  Take  interest." 

I  do  not  like  to  hear  him  pray 

On  bended  knees  about  an  hour, 
For  grace  to  spend  aright  the  day, 

Who  knows  his  neighbor  has  no  flour  ; 
I'd  rather  see  him  go  to  mill, 

And  buy  the  luckless  brother  bread, 
And  see  his  children  eat  their  fill, 

And  laugh  beneath  their  humble  shed. 

I  do  not  like  to  hear  him  pray, 
"  Let  blessings  on  the  widow  be," 
Who  never  seeks  her  home  to  say, 
"If  want  o'ertakes  you,  come  to  me.  " 
I  hate  the  prayer  so  loud  and  long, 

That's  offered  for  the  orphan's  weal, 
By  him  who  sees  him  crushed  by  wrong, 
And  only  with  the  lips  doth  feel. 


/ 


\ 


SCRAP    book..  Ill 

I  do  not  like  to  hear  her  pray, 

With  jeweled  ear  and  silken  dress, 
Whose  washer-woman  toils  all  day, 

And  then  is  asked  to  "work  for  less." 
Such  pious  shavers  I  despise, 

With  folded  hands  and  face  demure, 
They  lift  to  heaven  their  "  angel  eyes," 

Then  steal  the  earnings  of  the  poor. 

I  do  not  like  such  soulless  prayers, 

If  wrong  I  hope  to  be  forgiven. 
No  angel's  wing  them  upward  bears, — 

They're  lost  a  million  miles  from  heaven. 


AN  EXILE'S  SONG. 

Despondence  and  pain  on  my  spirit  have  lain, 
And  baffled  each  struggle  I  made  to  be  free, 

Since  they  came  o'er  me, 

That  dark  day  that  bore  me, 
Away  from  my  home,  o'er  the  waves  of  the  sea. 

The  vision  ne'er  dies  from  the  dream  of  my  eyes, 
That  memory  pictures  the  past  in  for  me, 

While  deep  in  its  throbbing, 

My  sad  heart  is  sobbing, 
And  yearns  for  its  home  o'er  the  foam  of  the  sea. 


ii2  jane  rowley's 

Decay  winds  its  chain  'round  my  limbs  and  my  brain, 
If  I  linger,  perchance  I  shall  ne'er  again  see 

The  green  land  I  sigh  for, 

And  gladly  would  die  for, 
My  fair  island  home  o'er  the  foam  of  the  sea. 

O  !  swift,  then,  returning  from  darkness  and  mourning, 
The  exile  will  rest,  gentle  Erin  with  thee. 

Here  fortune  looked  fav'ring, 

But  oh  !  never  wavering, 
He  flics  to  his  home  o'er  the  foam  of  the  sea. 


Trifles. — When  a  care  for  small  things  is  combined 
with  an  intense  fear  of  the  opinions  of  others,  a  state  of 
mind  is  generated  which  will  neither  allow  the  possessor 
of  it  to  be  happy  in  himself,  or  herself,  nor  permit 
those  about  him  or  her  to  enjoy  any  peace  or  comfort  for 
long.  It  is,  of  course,  a  preeminent  hindrance  to  the 
blessings  of  social  intercourse. 


Kindness  infuses  the  greatest  energy  into  both  heart  and 
soul,  and  creates  that  spirit  of  self-abandonment  to  the 
general  good  which  annihilates  selfish  considerations, 
and  binds  all  classes  in  the  bonds  of  peaceful  and  holy 
brotherhood. — Lord  Burleigh. 


Sound    doctrine    is    not    so    soon     indicated    by    never 
making  a  mistake,  as  by  never  repeating  it. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  I  13 

WILL  WATCH. 

BY    CORY. 

'Twas  one  morn  when  the  wind  from  northward  blew 
keenly, 
While  sullenly  roared  the  big  waves  of  the  main, 
A    famed   smuggler,  Will  Watch,  kissed  his  Sue,  then 
serenely 
Took  helm,  and  to  sea  boldly  steered  out  again. 

Will  had  promised  his  Sue  that  this  trip  if  well  ended, 
Should  coil  up  his  hopes,  and  he'd  anchor  on  shore  ; 

When  his  pockets  were  lined,   why  his  life    should  be 
mended, 
The  laws  he  had  broken,  he'd  never  break  more. 

His  sea-boat  was  trim,  made  her  port,  took  her  lading, 
Then  Will  stood  for  home,  reached  the  offing  and  cried, 

"  This  night,  if  I've  luck,  furls  the  sails  of  my  trading, 
In  dock  I  can  lay,  serve  a  friend,  too,  beside." 

Will  layed  to  till  the  night  came  on,  darksome  and  dreary, 
To  crowd  every  sail,  then,  he  piped  up  each  hand  ; 

But  a  signal  soon  spied,  'twas  a  prospect  uncheery, 
A  si<rnal  that  warned  him  to  bear  from  the  land. 

"  The  Philistines  are  out!"  cries  Will ;  "  well,  take  no 
heed  on't ; 
Attacked,  who's  the  man  that  will  flinch  from  his  gun  ; 


ii4  jane  Rowley's. 


Should  my  head  be  blown  off,  I  shall  ne'er  feel  the  need 
on't, 
We'll  hght  while  we  can,  when  we  can't,  boys,  we'll 
run. 

Through  the  haze  of  the  night,  a  bright  flash  now  ap- 
ing,— 
"  Oh  !  ho  !  "  cries  Will  Watch,  "  the  Philistines  bear 
down, 
"  Bear  a  hand  !  my  bright  lads,  e'er  we  think  about  sheer- 
ing, 
One    broadside    pour    in    should  we    swim,    boys,    or 
drown. 

"  But  should  I  be  popped  oft,  you  my  mates  left  behind 
me, 
Regard  my  last  words,  sec  them  kindly  obeyed, 
Let  no  stone  mark  the  spot,  and  my  friends  do  you  mind 
me, 
Near  the  bench  is  the  spot  where  Will  Watch  would 
be  laid." 
Poor  Will's  yarn  was  spun  out,  for  a  bullet  next  minute, 

Laid  him  low  on  the  deck  and  he  never  spake  more  ; 
His  bold  crew  fought  the  brig,  while  a  shot  remained   in 

it, 
Then  sheer'd,  and  Will's  hulk  to  his  Susan  they  bore. 
In    the  dead  of  the    night,   his  last  wish  was  complied 
with, 


SCRAP    BOOK.  115 

Too  few  know  his  grave,  and  too  few  know  his  end ; 
He  was  borne  to  the  earth  by  the  crew  that  he  died  with, 
He'd  the  tears  of  his  Susan,  the  prayers  of  each  friend. 

Near   his    grave    dash    the    billows,    the    wind    loudly 
bellows. 
Yon  ash  struck  with  lightning  points  out  the  cold  bed, 
Where  Will  Watch,  the  bold  smuggler,  that  famed,  law- 
less fellow, 
Once  feared,  now  forgotten,  sleeps  with  the  dead. 


Flowers.  — The  terrestial  stars  that  bring  down  heav- 
en to  earth,  and  carry  up  our  thoughts  from  earth  to 
heaven, — the  poetry  of  the  Creator  written  in  beauty  and 
fragrance.  "  He  who  does  not  love  flowers,"  said  Lud- 
wig  Tieg,  a  German  writer,  "has  lost  all  fear  and  love 
of  God."  Another  German  author  defines  woman  as 
"  something  between  a  flower  and  an  angel." 


HOME. 


There's  magic  in  that  little  word, 
It  is  a  mystic  circle  that  surmounts 
Comforts  and  virtues  never  known 
Beyond  the  hallowed  limit. 

Death. — The  sleeping  partner  of  life. 


1 16  jane  Rowley's 

ARAB  MAXIMS. 

First. —  Let  your  colt  be  domesticated  and  live  with 
you  from  his  tenderest  age,  and  when  a  horse  he  will  be 
docile,  simple,  faithful,  and  inured  to  hardship  and 
fatigue. 

Second. —  Do  not  beat  your  horses,  nor  speak  to 
them  in  a  loud  tone  of  voice  ;  do  not  get  angry  with 
them,  but  kindly  reprove  their  faults,  they  will  do  better 
thereafter,  for  they  understand  the  language  of  man  and 
its  meaning. 

Third. —  If  you  have  a  long  day's  journey  before  you, 
spare  your  horse  at  the  start ;  let  him  frequently  walk  to 
recover  his  wind  ;  continue  this  until  he  has  perspired 
and  dried  three  times,  and  you  may  ask  him  whatever 
you  please,  he  will  not  leave  you  in  difficulty. 

Fourth. —  Observe  your  horse  when  he  drinks  al  a 
brook.  If,  in  bringing  down  his  head  he  remains  square, 
without  bending  his  limbs,  he  possesses  sterling  quali- 
ties, and  all  parts  of  his  body  are  built  symmetrically. 

Fifth. —  Four  things  he  must  have  broad:  front, 
chest,  loins,  and  limbs  ;  four  things  long :  neck,  chest, 
forearm  and  croup ;  four  things  short :  pastern,  back, 
ears  and  tail. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  117 

DISCORD. 

BY    MRS.    M.    C.    AMES. 

Swift  through  the  fragrant  air  it  fell, 

A  single  word. 
The  wound  it  made  no  tongue  can  tell, 

For  no  one  heard, 
Save  one  sweet  heart,  whose  very  life 

Is  love  and  truth  — 
This  heart  the  word  pierced  like  a  knife. 

No  pulse  of  ruth 
Thrilled  him  who  spake  the  cruel  word  ; 

He  willed  and  spoke, — 
A  fair  face  quivered  like  a  bird, 

A  fond  heart  broke. 
Alas  !   the  spring-time  air  is  full 

Of  wrathful  words  ; 
They  rise  to  heaven  and  would  annul 

The  sweet-voiced  birds, 
That  everywhere  on  glancing  wing, 

Fly  from  the  south, 
New  messages  of  love  to  bring 

With  open  mouth. 

Nature's  glad  face  the  sons  of  men 

Doth  put  to  shame. 
She  says  :  "  Poor  children  of  the  earth, 


nS  tank  rowley's. 

Why  strive  and  blame  ? 
You  work  and  war, —  the  will  of  fate 

Abides  the  same." 
The  purposes  of  God  survive 

Your  feeble  fray  ; 
You  cannot  change  them  though  you  shrive 

Your  sins  away. 
The  name  you  toil  for  may  outlive 

Your  little  day ; 
But  you  must  live  when  earth  and  name 

Have  fled  away. 
Drink  thou  my  sunshine,  breathe  my  air, 

Ere  yet  too  late  ; 
Take  thou  with  soul  serene  and  fair, 

Thine  high  estate  ! 
Still  the  untiring  earth  spins  tow'rd 

Its  central  sun  ; 
Nor  fire  nor  force  can  hold  it  ward, 

Its  race  unrun ! 
The  placid  seasons  o'er  its  breast 

Move  to  and  fro  ; 
Unscathed  its  birds  brood  in  their  nest, 

Its  wood-flowers  bloom 
In  peace  above  its  stormiest  crest. 

In  God's  good  plan 
His  loveliest  creatures  all  find  rest, 

Not  thou,  O  man  ! 


SCRAP     BOOK.  II9 

I  REMEMBER,  I  REMEMBER. 

I  remember,  I  remember,  how  my  childhood  flitted  by ! 
The  mirth  of  its  December  and  the  warmth  of  its  July ; 
On  my  brow,  love,  on  my  brow,  love,  there  are  no  signs 

of  care, 
But  my  pleasures  are  not   now,  love,  what  childhood's 

pleasures  were,  — 

I  remember,  I  remember. 

Then  the  bowers,  then  the  bowers,  where  as  blythe,  as 

blythe  could  be, 
And  all  their  radiant  flowers  were  as  coronels  to  me ; 
Gems  to-night,  love,  gems  to-night,  love,  are  gleaming  in 

my  hair, 
But  they  are  not  half  so  bright,  love,  as  childhood's  roses 

were,  — 

I  remember,  I  remember. 

I  was  merry,  I  was  merry,  when  my  little  lovers  came, 

With  a  lily,  or  a  cherry,  or  a  new-invented  game  ; 

Now  I've  you,  love,  now  I've  you,  love,  to  kneel  before 

me  there, 
But  you  know  you're  not  so  true,    love,  as  childhood's 

lovers  were, — 

I  remember,  I  remember. 


Only  he  who  fully  knows  the  worth  of  what  he  re- 
nounces, gains  the  true  blessing  of  renunciation. —  George 
William  Curtis. 


120  JANE    ROWLEYS. 

EPISTLE  TO  A  YOUNG  FRIEND. 

BY    ROBERT    BURNS. 

May,  1786. 

I  lang  hae  thought,  my  youthful  friend, 

A  something  to  have  sent  you, 
Tho'  it  should  serve  nae  other  end, 

Than  just  a  kind  memento  ; 
But  how  the  subject  theme  may  gang. 

Let  time  and  chance  determine  ; 
Perhaps  it  may  turn  out  a  sang, 

Perhaps  turn  out  a  sermon. 

Ye'll  try  the  world  soon,  my  lad, 

And  Andrew,  dear,  believe  me, 
Ye'll  find  mankind  an  unco  squad, 

And  muckle  they  may  grieve  ye. 
For  care  and  trouble  set  your  thought, 

E'en  when  your  end  attained, 
And  a'  your  views  may  come  to  naught, 

When  ev'ry  nerve  is  strained. 

I'll  na  say  men  are  villains,  a', 

The  real  hardened,  wicked, 
What  hae  nae  check  but  human  law, 

Are  to  a  few  restricted  : 
But,  och  !  mankind  are  unco  weak, 

And  little  to  be  trusted  ; 


SCRAP    BOOK  I21 


If  self  the  wavering  balance  shake, 
It's  rarely  right  adjusted. 

Yet  they  wha  fa'  in  fortune's  strife. 

Their  fate  we  should  na  censure, 
For  still  the  important  end  of  life, 

They  equally  may  answer  ; 
A  man  may  have  an  honest  heart, 

Tho'  pov'rty  hourly  stare  him, 
A  man  may  take  a  ne'bor's  part, 

Yet  hae  nae  cash  to  spare  him. 

Ah,  free,  orl-han',  your  story  tell, 

When  wi  a  bosom  crony, 
But  still  keep  something  to  yourself, 

Ye  scarcely  tell  to  ony. 
Conceal  yourself  as  well's  ye  can, 

Fra  critical  dissection, 
But  keep  thro'  ev'ry  other  man, 

Wi'  sharpened  sly  inspection. 

The  sacred  lowe  o'weel  placed  love, 

Luxuriantly  indulge  it, 
But  never  tempt  the  illicit  rove, 

Tho'  neathing  should  divulge  it. 
I  wave  the  quantum  o'  the  sin, 

The  hazard  o'  concealing. 


122  JANE   ROWLEYS 

But  oh  !   it  hardens  a'  within, 
And  petrifies  the  feeling. 

To  catch  dame  fortune's  golden  smile, 

Assiduous  wait  upon  her, 
And  gathered  gear  by  ev'ry  wile 

That's  justified  by  honor  ; 
Not  for  to  hide  it  in  a  hedge, 

Nor  for  a  train-attendant, 
But  for  the  glorious  privilege, 

Of  being  independent. 

The  fear  o'  hell's  a  hangman's  whip, 

To  hand  the  wretch  in  order ; 
But  where  ye  feel  your  honor  grip, 

Let  ay  that  be  your  border  ; 
It's  slightest  touches,  instant  pause, 

Debar  a'  side  pretences, 
And  resolutely  keep  its  laws, 

Uncaring  consequences. 

The  great  Creator  to  revere, 
Must  sure  become  the  creature, 

But  still  the  preaching  can't  forbear, 
And  ev'n  the  rigid  feature  ; 

Yet  ne'er  with  wits  profane  to  range, 
Be  complaisance  extended, 


SCRAP    BOOK.  123 

An  atheist's  laugh's  a  poor  exchange 
For  Deity  offended. 

When  ranting  round  in  pleasure's  ring, 

Religion  may  be  blinded, 
Or  if  she  give  a  random  sting, 

It  may  be  little  minded  ; 
But  when  on  life  we're  tempest  driven, 

A  conscience  but  a  canker, — 
A  correspondence  fixed  wi'  heaven, 

Is  sure  a  noble  anchor. 

Adieu,  dear  amiable  youth, 

Your  heart  can  ne'er  be  wanting  ; 
May  prudence,  fortitude,  and  truth, 

Erect  your1  brow  undaunted  ! 
In  ploughman  phrase,  "  God  send  you  speed," 

Still  daily  to  grow  wiser, 
And  may  you  better  reck  the  rede, 

Than  ever  did  the  adviser. 


The  heart  that  loves  not  knows  not  how  to  pray. 

The  eye  can  never  smile  that  never  weeps ; 
'Tis  through  our  sighs  hope's  kindling  sunbeams  play, 

And  through  our  tears  the  bow  of  promise  peeps. 

Denis  Florence  Mc  Carty. 


124  JANE    ROWLEYS 

ON  FEMALE  VIRTUE,  FRIENDSHIP  AND  CON- 
VERSATION. 

To  form  the  manners  of  men,  various   things   con- 
tribute, but  nothing,  I  apprehend,    so   much,  as  the  turn 
of  the  woman  he  has  converse  with.     Those  who  are  the 
most    conversant  with    virtue    and    understanding,    will 
always  be  found  the  most  amiable  characters,  other  cir- 
cumstances being  supposed    alike.     Such  society  more 
than  any  thing  else  rubs  off  the  corners  that  give  many  of 
our  sex  an  ungracious  roughness.     It  produces  a  polish 
more   perfect   and    more   pleasing   than    that   which    is 
received  from  a  general  commerce  with  the  world.    This 
last  is   often    spacious,  but   commonly   superficial ;    the 
other  is    the  result  of  a  gentler  feeling  and   more  elegant 
humanity  ;  the  heart  itself  is   moulded  ;   habits  of  undis- 
sembled  courtesy  are  formed  ;  a  certain  flowing  urbanity 
is  acquired ;  understanding  and  virtue,    by   being  often 
contemplated  in  the  engaging  light,  have  a  sort  of  assim- 
ilating power.     If  aught  on  earth   can  present  the  image 
of  celestial  excellence  in  its  softest  array,  it   is  an  accom- 
plished woman. 


I  know  this  span  of  life  was  lent 
For  lofty  duties,  not  for  selfishness, — 
Nor  to  be  whiled  away  in  aimless  dreams. 

Aubray  De   Yrere. 


SCRAP     BOOK.  I25 

SONG  FOR  BOYS. 

When  life  is  full  of  health  and  glee, 

Work  thou  as  busy  as  a  bee  ! 

And  take  this  gentle  hint  from  me : 

Be  careful  of  your  money, 

Be  careful  of  your  money, 
You'll  find  it  true  that  friends  are  few, 

When  you  are  short  of  money. 

But  do  not  shut  sweet  mercy's  doors, 
When  sorrow  pleads  or  want  implores  ; 
To  help  to  heal  misfortune's  sores, 

Be  careful  of  your  money, 

Be  careful  of  your  money,  boys, 

Be  careful  of  your  money  ; 
To  help  the  poor  who  seek  your  door, 

Be  careful  of  your  money. 


The  good  do  not  comprehend  evil.  Noble  souls  with 
difficulty  reach  the  comprehension  of  evil  and  ingrati- 
tude ;  they  require  harsh  lessons  before  they  recognize 
the  extent  of  human  corruption.  Then,  when  their  edu- 
cation in  this  line  is  completed,  they  rise  to  an  indulgence 
which  is  the  last  degree  of  contempt. 


Affectation  is  a  greaf^v  enemy  to  the  face  than  small- 
pox. 


:a6 


JANE    ROWLEYS 

TRUTH. 

What  is  truth  ?  A  fadeless  flower, 
A  spring  whose  waters  sweetly  roll, 

A  tree  whose  fruit  has  vital  power, 
A  fire  which  purifies  the  soul. 

A  mirror  without  spot  and  bright, 

A  balance  having  no  defect, 
A  compass  always  pointing  right, 

A  sword  to  punish  and  protect. 

A  rock  immovable,  secure, 

A  perfect  gem  from  nature's  mine, 

A  way  which  leads  to  joys  most  pure, 
A  glorious  sun  which  ever  shines. 

y.  F.   Harrington. 


Tranquility. —  I  look  upon  tranquility  of  mind  and 
patience  to  contribute  as  much  as  anything  whatever  to 
the  curing  of  diseases.  On  this  principle  I  account  for 
the  circumstance  of  animals  not  laboring  under  illness  so 
long  as  human  beings.  Brutes  do  not  think  so  much  as 
we  do,  nor  vex  themselves  about  futurity,  but  endure 
their  maladies  without  reflecting  on  them,  and  recover 
from  them  by  the  sole  means  of  temperance  and  repose. 


There  is  in  every  human  countenance  either  a  history 
or  a  prophecy. 


SCRAP      BOOK.  127 

DOMESTIC  ETIQUETTE. 

A  carelessness  of  speech  is  a  fatal  source  of  estrange- 
ment in  married  people.  Now  it  is  too  much  the  fashion 
in  all  households  to  have  a  domestic  colloquy,  very 
different  in  its  tone  and  carefulness  to  that  in  use  with 
strangers.  The  very  best  of  us,  it  is  feared,  are  too 
prone  to  this,  but  from  wives  to  husbands,  and  the  re- 
verse, matrimony  seems  certainly  to  possess  the  chemical 
property  of  converting  sweets  into  acids  in  no  time. 
Short  answers  are  the  direst  foe  to  domestic  happiness  or 
else  no  answer  at  all ;  no  conversation  for  his  leisure, 
for  when  once  on  a  time  you  carefully  brushed  up  all 
your  stores  of  knowledge,  and  an  utter  oblivion  of  the 
personal  politeness  which  most  well-conducted  people 
think  due  to  a  stranger.  Pity  such  things  are  kept,  like 
your  choicest  preserves,  merely  for  strangers.  None 
can  place  too  much  value  on  domestic  warmth  of  polite- 
ness, unmixed,  of  course,  with  hypocrisy  or  shallow 
words.  Kindness  might  be  a  better  word,  perhaps,  for 
what  is  meant ;  for  when  there  are  kind  hearts,  there 
is  almost  sure  to  be  a  certain  suavity  of  manners.  But 
this  etiquette  of  the  heart  you  keep  like  your  best  clothes 
for  comfort,  never  thinking  that  every  day  use  is  your 
true  polish,  not  merely  for  the  base  metals  but  even  to 
keep  bright  gold  itself. 


128  jane  rowley's 

We  met,  'twas  in  a  crowd,  and  I  thought  he  would 
shun  me, 

He  came,  I  could  not  breathe,  for  his  eye  was  upon  me, 

He  spoke,  his  words  were  cold,  and  his  tone  was  un- 
altered. 

I  knew  how  much  he  felt,  for  his  deep-toned  voice 
faltered. 

I  wore  my  bridal  robes,  how  I  rivalled  its  whiteness, 

Bright  gems  were  in  my  hair,  how  I  hated  their  bright- 
ness, 

He  called  me  by  my  name,  as  the  bride  of  another  ; 

Oh !  thou  hast  been  the  cause  of  this  anguish,  my 
mother. 

And  once  again  we  met,  and  a  fair  girl  stood  near  him, 
He  smiled    and  whispered    low,  as   I    once  used  to  hear 

him. 
She    leaned    upon    his   arm,  once  'twas  mine   and    mine 

only, 
I  wept,  for  I  deserved  to  feci  wretched  and  lonely. 

And  she  will  be  his  bride,  at  the  altar  he'll  give  her 
The  love  that  was  too  pure  for  a  heartless  deceiver ; 
The  world  may  think  me  gay,  but  my  feelings  I  smother  ; 
Oh  !     thou    hast    been    the    cause    of    this    anguish,    my 
mother. 


SCRAP    BOOK. 


I29 


Slight  wishes,  the  habitual  respect  to  opinions,  the 
polite  abstinence  from  personal  topics  in  the  company 
of  others  ;  unswerving  attention  to  his  or  her  comforts,  both 
abroad  and  at  home  ;  and  above  all,  the  careful  preserva- 
tion of  those  proprieties  of  conversation  and  manner 
which  are  sacred  when  before  the  world,  are  some  of  the 
secrets  of  that  rare  happiness,  which  age  and  habit  alike 
fail  to  impair  or  diminish. 


Good  Breeding,  is  the  art  of  showing  men  by  exter- 
nal signs  and  internal  regard  which  we  have  for  them.  It 
arises  from  good  sense,  improved  by  conversing  with 
good  company. 


Age.  —  We  ought  not  to  calculate  our  age  by  the 
passing  years,  but  by  the  events  that  happen.  It  is  what 
we  have  done  and  what  we  have  suffered  make  us  old. 


If  you  would  have  a  thing  kept  secret,  never  tell  it  to 
any  one  ;  and  if  you  would  not  have  a  thing  known  of 
you,  never  do  it. 


As    every   thread    of    gold    is    valuable,    so    is   every 
minute  of  time. 


130  jane  rowley's 

A  PARTING  SONG. 

BV   MRS.    HEMANS. 

When  will  ye  think  of  me,  my  friends? 

When  will  ye  think  of  me? 
When  the  last  red  light,  the  farewell  of  day, 
From  the  rock  and  the  river  are  passing  away,  — 
When  the  air  with  a  deep'ning  hush  is  fraught, 
And  the  heart  grows  burdened  with  tender  thought, 

Then  let  it  be. 

When  will  ye  think  of  me  kind  friends? 

When  will  ye  think  of  me  ? 
When  the  rose  of  the  rich  midsummer  time, 
Is  filled  with  the  hues  of  its  glorious  prime  ; 
When  ye  gather  its  bloom,  as  in  bright  hours  fled, 
From    the   walks   where    my   footsteps    no    more   may 
tread, — 

Then  let  it  be. 

When  will  ye  think  of  me  sweet  friends ? 

When  will  ye  think  of  me  ? 
When  the  sudden  tears  o'erflow  your  eyes, 
At  the  sound  of  some  olden  melody,  — 
When  ye  hear  the  voice  of  a  mountain  stream, 
When  ye  feel  the  charm  of  a  poet's  dream, 

Then  let  it  be. 


SCRAP    BOOK. 

Thus  let  my  memory  be  with  you,  friends, 

Thus  ever  think  of  me. 
Kindly  and  gently,  but  as  of  one 
For  whom  'tis  well  to  be  fled  and  gone,  — 
As  of  a  bird  from  a  chain  unbound, 
As  of  a  wanderer  whose  home  is  found, 

So  let  it  be. 


131 


THE  TWO  FLAGS. 

AN  INCIDENT  OF  THE  WAR  IN  CUBA. 
BY  EDWARD  RENACED. 

From  the  black  browed  Mora,  the  castle-crested  crag, 
Drooped  in  the  drowsy  noontide  the  red  and  yellow  flag, 
And  in  the  seething  city  the  sun  with  fiery  glare, 
Flashed  on  a  sea  of  faces  —  a  thousand  bayonets  bare. 

Soldiers  with   sullen   faces  —  a  doomed  man   trembling 

nigh, 
While  a  motely  throng  from  every  side  poured  forth  to 

see  him  die ; 
And  all  the  might  multitudes  beheld  with  bated  breath, 
The  scene  of  coming  slaughter  —  the  many  throated  death. 

But  by  the  pallid  prisoner,  bare-headed  and  stern-browed, 
Strode   forth   two   gallant   consuls    before    the    surging 
crowd  ; 


132  Jane  rowley's 

One  waved  Columbia's  banner,  and  one  the  Union  Jack, 
While  all  were  filled  with  wonder,  and  waved  the  brave 
men  back. 

But  step  by  step  together,  before  those  armed  bands, 
Paced  those  proud  consuls,  holding  the  ensigns  in  their 

hands, 
"  Present  !  "    The  three  stood  silent,  one  moment  face  to 

face,  — 
The  consuls  calm  and  steady,  and  the   prisoner  in  his 

place. 

A  sudden  flash  of  crimson,  of  red,  and  white  and  blue, 
The  trembling  captive  cowered  between    the   dauntless 

two  ; 
The  three  stood  draped   together  beneath   the  banners' 

fold  — 
The  proud  thin  flags  of  freedom  —  of  the  new  world  and 

the  old. 

Then  turning  stern  and  haughty  upon  the  ordered  line  : 
"  By  these  broad  flags  I  claim  him,  and  keep  him,  he  is 

mine  ! 
Thus  England  and  Columbia    stretch    arms   across   the 

seas 
To  shield  him.     Strike  the  prisoner,  you  strike  through 

us  and  these  !  " 


SCRAP    BOOK.  1^3 

Thus  out  spake  he  of  England  ;  like  lions  brought  to  bay, 
The  twain  with  eyes  defiant  looked  round  that  stern  array. 
There  fell  a  solemn  silence,  the  rifle-barrels  shone 
Still  at  the  doomsmen's  shoulders,  men  shuddered  and 
looked  on. 

Till  in  a  clear  voice,  crossing  the  bullet's  threatened  track, 
Rang  out  the  sudden  mandate  to  march  the  prisoner  back, 
And  as  the  shining  escort  fell  back  and  faced  about, 
From  all  the  crowded  plaza  went  up  a  mighty  shout." 

A  mighty  storm  of  vivas,  that  rent  the  sultry  skies, 
Greeted  the  gallant  consuls  —  the  deed  of  high  emprize, 
Still  louder,  even  louder,  went  up  that  vast  acclaim, 
From  all  the  mighty  plaza,  bathed  in  its  noontide  flame. 

Onward  to  future  ages,  far  down  the  teeming  years, 
That  sea  of  upturned  faces  sends  forth  its  storm  of  cheers  : 
Long  shall  the  deed  be    honored,    and  proudly  handed 

down, 
To    crown    the   victor    consuls    with    fame's   enduring 

crown  ! 

Hail  to  the  hero  consuls  !  Hail  to  the  noble  twain  ! 
Who  dared  for  truth  and  duty  the  bullet's  deadly  rain ! 
How  strong  to  face  the  mighty  —  how  great  to  guard  the 

weak  — 
Are  these,  the  great  twin  nations  to  whom  the  helpless 

seek ! 


134  Jane  rowley's 

Still  shall  our  arms  protecting  be  spread  across  the  sea, 
Still  shall  the  tyrants  fear  us  who  set  their  captives  free, 
Wrapped  in  a  mighty  mantle  from  hatred's  cruel  scars, — 
The  blood-red  flag  ot   England,   Columbia's  stripes  and 
stars. 


THE  LAND  THAT  WE  LEFT,  AND  THE  LAND 
THAT  WE  LIVE  IN. 

BY  J.    GRAHAM. 
CHORUS. 

Come  hearts,  of  no  patriot  feeling  bereft, 
Let  this  be  the  toast  that  is  given  :  — 
"  Oh  !  here's  to  the  dear,  native  land  that  we  left, 
And  here's  to  the  land  that  we  live  in." 
Wherever  the  banner  of  freedom  is  spread, 

At  home,  or  where  wandering  a  stranger, 
The  last  drop  of  blood  in  our  veins  shall  be  shed, 
To  guard  the  loved  ensign  from  danger, 
Come  hearts. 

But  love  sheds  a  charm  o'er  the  land  of  our  birth, 
And  where  is  the  hand  woidd  remove  it  ? 

For  if  there  be  patriot  worth  on  this  earth, 
O  !  this  is  the  feeling  will  prove  it. 
Come  hearts. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  135 

For  home  when  the  wanderer  is  heaving  a  sigh, 

O,  let  not  the  native  deride  it ; 
But  leave  his  own  country  and  then  let  him  try 

If  e'en  his  own  breast  could  avoid  it. 
Come  hearts. 

The  heart  that  is  cold  to  the  land  of  its  home, 
The  scenes  of  another  may  charm  it ; 

But  cold  to  its  home,  o'er  earth  should  it  roam, 
What  patriot  feeling  can  warm  it  ? 
Come  hearts. 

Then,  freedom,  should  tyranny  grasp  his  foul  dart, 

Thou'lt  find  at  thy  breast  should  he  send  it, 
The  home-loving  patriot  cling  round  thy  heart, 

And  still  a  true  shield  to  defend  it. 
Come  hearts,  of  no  patriot  feelings  bereft, 

Let  this  be  the  toast  that  is  given  :  — 
"  O  !  here's  to  the  dear,  native  land  that  we  left, 

And  here's  to  the  land  that  we  live  in." 


What  deduction  from  reason  can  ever  be  applied  to 
love  ?  Love  is  a  contradiction  to  all  the  elements  of  our 
ordinary  nature.  It  makes  the  proud  man  meek ;  the 
cheerful  sad  ;  the  high-spirited  tame. 


136  jane  rowley's 

RECOMMENDED  TO  THE  ATTENTION  OF  M. 

by  a  member  of  the  anti-poking-your-nose- 

into-other-people's-ijusiness-soctety. 
Wanted  Immediately. 
Persons  of  fair  character,  age  or  sex  immaterial,  at  a 
salary  of  twenty  thousand  dollars  per  annum,  to  mind 
their  own  business,  and  leave  other  people's  alone  !  Ap- 
plications with  testimonials  to  be  addressed  to  the  secre- 
tary of  the  "  Neglected  Home  Department,"  at  the  office 
of  "  The  Woman's  Suffrage  Association." 


PADDY'S  EXCELSIOR. 

'Twas  growin'  dark  so  terrible  fasht, 
When  through  a  town  up  the  mountain  there  passed, 
A  broth  of  a  boy  to  his  neck  in  the  shnow  ! 
As  he  walked,  his  shillalah  he  swung  to  and  fro, 
Saying,  "  It's  up  to  the  top  I  am  bound  for  to  go, — 
Be-jabbers  !  " 

He  looked  mortal  sad  and  his  eve  was  as  bright 
As  a  fire  of  turf  on  a  cowld  winter's  night ; 
And  niver  a  word  that  he  said  could  ye  tell, 
As  he  opened  his  mouth  and  let  out  a  yell, 
"  It's  up  to  the  top  of  the  mountain  I'll  go, 
Unless  covered  up  by  this  bothersome  shnow, — 
Be-jabbers ! " 


{* 


4* 


SCRAP    BOOK.  137 

Through  the  windows  he  saw  as  he  thraveled  along, 
The  light  of  the  candles  and  fires  so  warm  ; 
But  a  big  chunk  of  ice  hung  o'er  his  head  ! 
Wid  a  shiver  and  groan —  "  By  St.  Patrick  !  "  he  said, 
*'  It's  up  to  the  very  tip-top  I  will  rush, 
And  then  if  it  falls,  it's  not  meself  it  will  crush, — 

Be-jabbers !  " 

"Whist   a   bit,"  said    an    ould    man,  whose  hair  was  as 

white, 
As  the  shnow  that  fell  down  on  that  miserable  night ; 
"  Shure  ye'll  fall  in  the  wather,  me  bit  of  a  lad, 
Fur  the  night  is  so  dark,  and  the  walkin  is  bad." 
Bedad  !  he'd  not  lisht  to  a  word  that  was  said, 
But  he'd  go  to  the  top  if  he  went  on  his  head, — 
Be-jabbers  ! 

A  bright,  buxum'  young  girl,  such  as  likes  to  be  kissed, 
Axed  him  wouldn't  he  sthop,  and  how  could  he  resist? 
And  so  shnapping  his  fingers  and  winking  his  eye, 
While  shmiling  upon  her,  he  made  this  reply  : — 
"  Faith,  I  ment  to  kape  on  till  I  got  to  the  top, 
But,  as  yer  swate  self  has  axed  me,  I  may  as  well  sthop, 
Be-jabbers !  " 

He  shtopped  all  night  and  he  shtopped  all  day, 
And  ye  must'n  be  axin  whin  he  did  go  away  ; 
For  wouldn't  he  be  a  bastlev  grassoon 


i3§  jane  rowley's 

To  be  lavin  his  darlint  in  the  swate  honeymoon? 
Whin  the  ould  man  has  peraties  enough  and  to  spare, 
Sure  he  might  as  well  shtay  if  he's  comfortable  there,- 
Be-]'abbers  ! 


GRATTAN. 


Deep  in  the  bosom  of  his  bleeding  land, 

Had  sunk  the  bitter,  barbed  steel  of  wrong  ; 
Her   poor   limbs   charred   and   bruised   by  chain  and 
thong, 

Seemed  helpless,  and  the  lips  that  once  were  bland 

With  hopeful  smile,  and  song,  could  scarce  command 
A  feeble  murmur,  when  arose  a  strong, 
Bold  voice  that  called,  and  lo  !   a  scried  throng 

Of  stalwart  sons  strode  up  from  every  strand. 

Stricken  and  feeble  was  she  when  he  came, 

But  with  bold,  manly  arms  he  folded  her 
To  the  great  heart  that  beat  for  her  alone. 

And  when  again  the  evil  and  the  shame 
Returned,  to  hold  her,  still  a  sufferer, 

The  great  heart  burst  to  hear  her  plaintive,  piteous  moan. 


You  may  wish  to  get  a  wife  without  a  fault ;  but 
what  if  the  lady,  after  you  find  her,  happens  to  be  in 
want  of  a  husband  of  the  same  character. 


^CRAP   BOOK.  139 

LINES  ON  A  SKULL. 

Some  forty  years  ago  the  following  poem  was  found  in  the  London 
Morning  Chronicle.  Every  effort  was  vainly  made  to  discover  the  author, 
even  to  the  offering  of  a  reward  of  fifty  guineas.  All  that  ever  transpired 
was,  that  the  poem  in  a  fair  clerkly  hand  was  found  near  a  skeleton  of 
remarkable  symmetry  of  form  in  the  Museum  of  the  Royal  College  of  Sur- 
geons, Lincoln's  Inn,  London,  and  that  the  curator  of  the  Museum  sent  it 
to  the  Morning  Chrouicle. 

Behold  this  ruin  !  'twas  a  skull, 

Once  of  etherial  spirit  full,  Q- 

This  narrow  cell  was  life's  retreat, 

This  space  was  thought's  mysterious  seat. 

What  beauteous  visions  filled  this  spot, 

What  dreams  of  pleasure  long  forgot ! 

Nor  hope,  nor  joy,  nor  love  nor  fear, 

Have  left  one  trace  or  record  here. 

Beneath  this  smouldering  canopy, 

Once  shone  the  bright  and  busy  eye  ; 

But  start  not  at  the  dismal  void, 

If  once  with  love  that  eye  employed  ; 

If  with  no  lawless  fire  it  gleamed, 

But  through  the  dews  of  kindness  beamed, 

That  eye  shall  be  for  ever  bright, 

When  stars  and  skies  are  sunk  in  night. 

Within  this  hollow  cavern  hung, 

The  ready,  swift  and  tempered  tongue  ; 

If  falsehood's  honey  it  disdained, 

And  when  it  could  not  praise  was  chained  ; 


R      I 


^ 

s 


140  jane  rowley's 

If  bold  in  virtue's  cause  it  spoke, 
Yet  gentle  concord  never  broke  ! 
This  silent  tongue  shall  plead  for  thee 
When  time  unveils  eternity. 

Say,  did  these  fingers  delve  the  mine? 
Or  with  the  envied  rubies  shine? 
To  hew  the  rock  or  wear  the  gem, 
Can  little  now  avail  to  them. 
But  if  the  page  of  truth  they  sought, 
Or  comfort  to  the  mourner  brought. 
These  hands  a  richer  meed  shall  claim 
Than  all  that  waits  on  wealth  and  fame. 

Avails  it,  whether  bare  or  shod, 
These  feet  the  path  of  duty  trod  ? 
If  from  the  bower  of  ease  they  fled, 
To  seek  affliction's  humble  shed, 
If  grandeur's  guilty  bribe  they  spurned, 
And  home  to  virtue's  cot  returned, 
These  feet  with  angel's  wings  shall  vie, 
And  tread  the  palace  of  the  sky. 


Hope  is  the  sweetest  friend  that  ever  kept  a  distressed 
soul  company  ;  it  beguiles  the  tediousness  of  the  way,  — 
all  the  miseries  of  our  pilgrimage. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  I4I 

TRUE  LOVE. 

Let  not  the  marriage  of  true  minds, 
Admit  impediment.     Love  is  not  love 
Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds, 
Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove. 

Oh,  no  !  it  is  an  ever  fixed  mark, 

That  looks  on  tempests,  and  is  never  shaken  ; 

It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark, 

Whose  worth's  unknown,  although  his  life  be  taken. 

Love's  not  time's  fool,  though  rosy  lips  and  cheek, 
Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass  come  : 
Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and  weeks, 
But  bears  it  out  ev'n  to  the  edge  of  doom. 

If  this  be  error  and  upon  me  proved, 
I  never  write  —  nor  no  man  ever  loved. 

W.  Shakespeare. 


KEEPING  HIS  WORD. 

"  Only  a  penny  a  box,"  he  said, 
But  the  gentlemen  turned  away  his  head, 
As  if  he  shrank  from  the  squalid  sight, 
Of  the  boy  who  stood  in  the  fading  light. 


>f 


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'    ■  r 


142  jane  rowley's 

"  Oh,  sir  !  "  lie  stammered,  "  you  cannot  know," 
(And  he  brushed  from  his  matches  the  flakes  of  snow, 
That  the  sudden  tear  might  have  chance  to  fall,) 
"  Or  I  think  —  I  think  you  would  take  them  all. 

"  Hungry  and  cold  at  our  garret  pane, 
Ruby  will  watch  till  I  come  again, 
Bringing  the  loaf.     The  sun  has  set, 
And  he  hasn't  a  crumb  of  breakfast  yet. 

One  penny,  and  then  I  can  buy  the  bread," 
The  gentleman  stopped,  "  And  you?  "  he  said, 
"  I?  I  can  put  up  with  them,  hunger  and  cold, 
But  Ruby  is  only  five  years  old. 

"  I  promised  our  mother  before  she  went,  — 
She  knew  I  would  do  it,  —  died  content,  — 
I  promised  her,  sir,  through  best,  through  worst, 
I  always  would  think  of  Ruby  first." 

The  gentleman  paused  at  his  open  door, 

Such  tales  he  had  often  heard  before ; 

But  he  fumbled  his  purse  in  the  twilight  drear,  — 

"  I've  nothing  less  than  a  shilling  here." 

"  Oh,  sir,  if  you'll  only  take  the  pack, 
I'll  bring  you  the  change  in  a  moment  back  ; 
Indeed  you  may  trust  me  !  "  "  Trust  you  ?  No  ! 
But  here  is  the  shilling ;  take  it  and  go." 


SCRAP    BOOK. 


'43 


The  gentleman  lolled  in  his  easy  chair, 
And  watched  his  cigar  smoke  wreath  in  air, 
And  smiled  on  his  children,  and  rose  to  see 
The  baby  asleep  on  its  mother's  knee. 

"  And  now  it  is  nine  o'clock,"  he  said, 
"  Time  that  my  darlings  were  all  abed, 
Kiss  me  good-night,  and  each  be  sure, 
When    you're     saying     your     prayers,    remember     the 
poor." 

Just  then  came  a  message  —  "A  boy  at  the  door," 
But  e'er  it  was  uttered,  he  stood  in  the  door, 
Half  breathless,  bewildered,  and  ragged  and  strange, 
"  I'm    Ruby,    Mike's    brother,    I've    brought    you    the 
change. 

"  Mike's    hurt    sir,    'twas    dark,    the    snow   made    him 

blind, 
And  he  did  not  take  notice  the  train  was  behind, 
Till  he  slipped  on  the  track,  and  then  it  whizzed  by, 
And  he's  home  in  the  garret ;  I  think  he  will  die. 

"  Yet  nothing  would  do  him  sir,  nothing  would  do, 
But  out  through  the  snow  I  must  hurry  to  you  ; 
Of  his  hurt  he  was  certain  you  wouldn't  have  heard, 
And  so  you  might  think  he  had  broken  his  word." 


144  Ja^e  kowley's 

When  the  garret  they  entered,  they  saw 
Two  arms,  mangled,  shapeless,  outstretched  on  the 
straw, 
"  You  did  it? — dear  Ruby  —  God  bless  you  !  "  he  said, 
And  the  boy,  gladly  smiling,  sank  back  and  was  dead. 

: :_      Harper's  Magazine. 


Clocks  may  stop,  hearts  may  cease  to  beat,  but  still 
time  goes  on,  staying  or  accelerating  its  pace  for  none  ; 
no  prayers  advance  or  delay  its  speed,  though  the  sad 
and  joyous  count  its  strokes  by  seconds  of  a  different 
length. 


Children. — How  little  do  those  who  have  grown  up 
to  man's  estate,  trouble  themselves  about  the  feelings  of 
children.  It  would  really  seem  as  if  they  fancied  that 
children  were  destitute  of  all  those  fine  and  delicate 
springs  of  emotion,  which  are  recognized  in  mature  life, 
and  are  the  sources  of  all  our  joys  and  sorrows.  It  is 
time  the  grown-up  world  went  to  school  to  some  one 
who  has  not  forgotten  the  tender  susceptibilities  of  child- 
hood, that  it  may  learn  to  sympathize  with  the  little 
sufferers.  The  germinating  bud  has  within  its  folded 
recesses  all  the  beauty  and  the  fragrance  of  the  flower ; 
the  gentle  distillations  of  heaven  sighs  sweetly  in  its  se- 
cluded shrine,  and  the  sunbeams  fall  there  as  soothingly 


SCRAP     BOOK.  I45 

as  on  the  prouder  petals  that  claim  all  to  themselves. 

How  many  a  sweet  spirit  withers  beneath  the  blighting 

form  of  the  unsympathizing  guardian  ;    how  many  a  one 

retires  to  weep  in  solitude,  because  it  is  not  loved  as  it 

would  be,  and  is  not  comprehended  in  its  affection.     We 

little  think  what  arcana  we  read,  when  the  words,  "of 

such    is  the   kingdom   of  heaven,"    pass  our   unheeded 

utterance. — Riifus  Daws. 

A 

Truth.  — We  never  knew  a  boy  or  a  man  who  from 
early  life  spoke  truth  and  shunned  a  falsehood,  that  was 
not  virtuous  in  all  other  respects,  and  who  did  not  acquire 
and  enjoy  the  confidence  and  esteem  of  society.  Truth- 
fulness is  one  of  the  chief  corner  stones  in  a  good  and 
respectable  character.  Young  man,  never  utter  a  false- 
hood ;  never  be  tempted  to  depart  from  strict  truth  in  all 
you  say.  False  words  come  from  a  false  heart,  and  a 
false  heart  breeds  corruption  that  soon  taints  and  spoils 
the  whole  character. 


If  you  wish  to  reform  the  world,  begin  by  reforming 
yourself,  and  then  devote  your  attention  to  reforming  and 
improving  the  habits,  manners  and  principles  of  the 
children  and  youth,  who  are  next  to  come  on  the  stage 
of  action. 

Money. — A  fish  particularly  hard  to  catch. 


146  jane  Rowley's. 

A  BEAUTIFUL  REFLECTION. 

It  cannot  be  that  earth  is  man's  abiding  place.  It 
cannot  be  that  our  life  is  cast  up  by  the  ocean  of  eternity 
to  float  a  moment  upon  its  waves  and  sink  into  nothing- 
ness. Else  why  is  it  that  the  high  and  glorious  inspira- 
tions which  leap  from  the  temple  of  our  hearts,  are  for- 
ever wandering  about  unsatisfied  ?  Why  is  it  that  the 
rainbow  and  cloud  come  over  us  with  a  beauty  that  is 
not  of  earth,  and  then  pass  off  and  leave  us  to  muse  upon 
their  faded  loveliness  ?  Why  is  it  that  the  stars  that  hold 
their  "festival  around  the  midnight  throne,"  are  set  above 
the  grasp  of  our  limited  faculties,  forever  mockin<>-  us 
with  their  unapproachable  glory?  And,  finally,  why  is 
it  that  brighter  forms  of  human  beauty  are  presented  to 
our  view,  and  then  taken  from  us,  leaving  the  thousand 
streams  of  our  affections  to  flow  back  in  Alpine  torrents 
upon  our  hearts?  We  are  born  for  a  higher  destiny  than 
that  of  earth.  There  is  a  realm  where  the  rainbow  never 
fades,  where  the  stars  will  be  spread  out  before  us  like 
islands  that  slumber  in  the  ocean,  and  when  the  beautiful 
that  begins  here  and  passes  before  us  like  shadows,  shall 
stay  in  our  presence  for  ever. 


The    man    that    dares  traduce    because    he    can  with 
safety  to  himself  is  not  a  man. —  Cowpcr. 


SCRAP     BOOK.  147 

ELEGANCE   DOES   NOT  MAKE  HOME. 

THEODORE    PARKER. 

I  never  saw  a  garment  too  fine  for  a  man  or  maid. 
There  was  never  a  chair  too  good  for  a  cobbler,  or  cooper, 
or  king  to  sit  on ;  never  a  house  too  fine  to  shelter  a 
human  head.  These  elements  about  us,  the  gorgeous 
sky,  the  imperial  sun,  are  not  too  good  for  the  human 
race.  Elegance  fits  man.  But  do  we  not  value  this  of 
housekeeping  a  little  more  than  it  is  worth,  and  some- 
times mortgage  a  home  for  the  mahogany  we  would 
bring  into  it?  I  had  rather  eat  my  dinner  off  the  head  of 
a  barrel,  or  dress  after  the  manner  of  John  the  Baptist  in 
the  wilderness,  or  sit  on  a  block  all  my  life,  than  con- 
sume all  myself  before  I  got  to  home,  and  take  so  much 
pains  with  the  outside,  that  the  inside  was  as  hollow  as 
an  empty  nut.  Beauty  is  a  great  thing,  but  beauty  of  gar- 
ment, house  and  furniture  is  a  very  tawdry  ornament 
compared  to  domestic  love.  All  the  elegance  in  the 
world  will  not  make  home,  and  I  would  give  more  for  a 
spoonful  of  real  hearty  love,  than  for  whole  ship-loads 
of  furniture,  and  all  the  gorgeousness  that  all  the  uphol- 
sterers of  the  world  could  gather  together. 


The  three  most  difficult  things  are  :  to  keep  a  secret, 
to  forget  an  injury,  and  to  make  a  good  use  of  leisure. 


W^  jane  rowley's 


SONG. 


Shades  of  evening  close  not  o'er  us, 

Leave  our  lonely  bark  awhile, 
Morn,  alas  !   will  not  restore  us 

Yonder  dim  and  distant  Isle. 
Still  my  fancy  can  discover, 

Sunny  spots  where  friends  may  dwell ; 
Darker  shadows  round  us  hover, 

Isle  of  beauty,  fare-thee-well. 

'Tis  the  hour  when  happy  faces 

Smile  around  the  tapers  light ; 
Who  will  fill  our  vacant  places? 

Who  will  sing  our  songs  to-night? 
Through  the  mists  that  float  above  us, 

Faintly  sounds  the  vesper  bell, 
Like  a  voice  from  those  who  love  us, 

Breathing  softly,  fare-thee-well. 

When  the  waves  are  round  me  breaking, 

As  I  pace  the  deck  alone, 
And  my  eye  in  vain  is  seeking, 

Some  green  spot  to  rest  upon, 
What  would  I  not  give  to  wander, 

Where  my  old  companions  dwell  ; 
Absence  makes  the  heart  grow  fonder, 

Isle  of  beauty,  fare-thee-well.  j'^  \ 


A 


SCRAP     BOOK.  I49 

THE  BELLS  OF  SHANDON. 

FATHER    PROUT. 

With  deep  affection 
And  recollection 
I  often  think  of 

Those  Shandon  bells, 
Whose  sounds  so  wild  would, 
In  the  days  of  childhood, 
Fling  round  my  cradle 

Their  magic  spells. 

On  this  I  ponder, 
Where'er  I  wander, 
And  thus  grow  fonder 

Sweet  Cork  of  thee. 
With  thy  bells  of  Shandon, 
That  sound  so  grand,  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 

I've  heard  bells  chiming, 
Full  many  a  clime  in, 
Telling  sublime  in 

Cathedral  shrine  ; 
While  at  a  glib  rate, 
Brass  tongues  would  vibrate, 
But  all  their  music 

Spoke  naught  like  thine. 


150  JANE    ROWLEY  S 

For  memory  dwelling, 
On  each  proud  swelling, 
Of  thy  belfry  knelling, 

Its  bold  notes  free. 
Made  the  bells  of  Shandon, 
Sound  far  more  grand,  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 

I've  heard  bells  tolling, 
Old  Adrian's  Mole  in 
Their  thunder  rolling 

From  the  Vatican  ; 
And  symbols  glorious, 
Swinging  uproarious, 
In  the  gorgeous  turrets 

Of  Notre  Dame. 

But  thy  sounds  were  sweeter 
Than  the  dome  of  Peter 
Flings  o'er  the  Tiber, 

Pealing  solemnly. 
O  !  the  bells  of  Shandon, 
Sound  far  more  grand,  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 
There's  a  bell  in  Moscow, 
While  on  tower  and  Kiosk,  oh, 


SCRAP    BOOK.  151 

In  saint  Sophia, 

The  Turkman  gets, 
And  loud  in  air, 
Calls  men  to  prayer, 
From  the  tapering  summits 

Of  tall  minarets. 

Such  empty  phantom, 
I  freely  grant  them, 
But  there's  an  anthem 

More  dear  to  me  ; 
'Tis  the  bells  of  Shandon 
That  sound  so  grand,  on 
On  the  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 


THE  FRONT  AND  SIDE  DOOR. 

BY    OLIVER    WENDELL    HOLMES. 

Every  person's  feelings  have  a  front-door  and  side- 
door  by  which  they  may  be  entered.  The  front-door 
is  on  the  street.  Some  keep  it  always  open ;  some 
keep  it  latched  ;  some  locked  ;  some  bolted  with  a  chain 
that  will  let  you  peep  in,  but  not  get  in  ;  and  some  nail 
it  up,  so  that  nothing  can  pass  its  threshold.  This  front- 
door leads  into  a  passage  which  opens  into  an  ante-room, 
and  this  into  the  interior  apartments.  The  side-door 
opens  at  once  into  the  sacred  chambers. 


153  JANE    ROWLEYS 

There  is  almost  always  one  key  to  this  side-door. 
This  is  carried  for  years  hidden  in  a  mothei-'s  bosom. 
Fathers,  brothers,  sisters  and  friends,  often,  but  by  no 
means  so  universally,  have  duplicates  of  it.  The  wed- 
ding ring  conveys  a  right  to  one.  Be  very  careful  to 
whom  you  trust  one  of  these  keys  of  the  side-door. 
The  fact  of  possessing  one,  renders  those  even  who  are 
dear  to  you  very  terrible  at  times.  You  can  keep  the 
world  out  from  your  front-door.  Receive  visitors  only 
when  you  are  ready  for  them  ;  but  those  of  your  own 
flesh  and  blood,  or  of  certain  grades  of  intimacy,  can 
come  in  at  the  side-door,  if  they  will,  at  any  hour  and 
in  any  mood.  Some  of  them  have  a  scale  of  your 
whole  nervous  system,  and  can  play  all  the  gamut  of 
your  sensibilities  in  semi-tones,  —  touching  the  naked 
nerve-pulps  as  a  pianist  strikes  the  keys  of  his  in- 
strument. I  am  satisfied  that  there  are  as  great  masters 
of  this  nerve-playing  as  Vieuxtemps  or  Thalberg  in 
their  line  of  performance.  Married  life  is  the  school 
in  which  the  most  accomplished  artists  in  this  depart- 
ment are  found.  A  delicate  woman  is  the  best  instru- 
ment;  she  has  such  a  magnificant  compass  of  sensibil- 
ities !  From  the  deep  inward  moan  which  follows 
pressure  on  the  great  nerve  of  right,  to  the  sharp  cry 
as  the  filaments  of  the  taste  are  struck  with  a  crushing 
sweep,  is  a  range  which  no  other  instrument  possesses. 
A  few  exercises   on    it   daily  -it  home  fit  a  man  wonder- 


SCRAP    BOOK.  I53 

fully  for  his  habitual  labors,  and  refreshes  him  immensely 
as  he  returns  from  them.  No  stranger  can  get  a  great 
many  notes  of  torture  out  of  a  human  soul ;  it  takes  one 
that  knows  it  well,  —  parent,  child,  brother,  sister,  inti- 
mates. Be  very  careful  to  whom  you  give  a  side-door 
key  ;  too  many  have  them  already. 


Ask  yourself  before  speaking  evil  of  any  one  :  First, 
is  it  right?  second,  is  it  kind?  third,  is  it  neces- 
sary? Half  the  truth  may  be  a  lie  in  the  absence  of 
the  other  half. 


A  little  explained,  a  little  endured,  a  little  passed  over 
as  a  foible,  and  lo  3  the  rugged  atoms  will  fit  like  smooth 
mosaic. 


Why  is  a  discontented  man  like  a  watchful  house-dog? 
Because  he  is  a  growler. 


What  a  precious  thing  is  the  perfume  of  a  flower, 
which,  without  any  loss  to  the  plant,  adheres  to  the  hand 
of  a  friend^  and  follows  him  to  recall  the  beauty  of  the 
flower  he  loves. 

The  perfume  of  the  soul  is  memory.  It  is  the  sweetest 
and  most  delicate  part  of  the  heart,  that  detaches  itself  to 
cling  to  another  heart  and  follow  it  everywhere. 


154  JANE  Rowley's. 

THE   BIVOUAC  OF   THE   DEAD. 

BY    THEODORE    o'HARA. 

The  muffled  drum's  sad  roll  has  beat 

The  soldier's  last  tattoo  ; 
No  more  on  life's  parade  shall  meet 

The  brave  and  daring  few. 
On  fame's  eternal  camping  ground, 

Their  silent  tents  are  spread, 
And  glory  guards  with  solemn  round, 

The  bivouac  of  the  dead. 

No  answer  of  the  foe's  advance, 

Now  swells  upon  the  wind  ; 
No  troubled  thought  at  midnight  haunts 

Of  loved  ones  left  behind  ; 
No  vision  of  the  morrow's  strife, 

The  warrior's  dream  alarms  ; 
No  braying  horn  nor  screaming  fife, 

At  dawn  shall  call  to  arms. 

Their  shivered  swords  are  red  with  rust, 

Their  plumed  heads  are  bowed, 
Their  haughty  banners  trailed  in  dust, 

Is  now  their  martial  shroud  ; 
And  plenteous  funeral  tears  have  washed 

The  red  stains  from  each  brow, 
And  their  proud  forms  in  battle  gashed 

Are  free  from  anguish  now. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  155 

The  neighing  steed,  the  flashing  blade, 

The  trumpet's  stirring  blast, 
The  charge,  the  dreadful  cannonade, 

The  din  and  shout  are  past ; 
Not  war's  wild  note,  not  glory's  peal, 

Shall  thrill  with  fierce  delight, 
Those  breasts  that  never  more  shall  feel 

The  rapture  of  the  fight. 

Like  the  dread  northern  hurricane, 

That  sweeps  his  broad  plateau, 
Flushed  with  triumph  yet  to  gain, 

Came  down  the  serried  foe  ; 
Our  heroes  felt  the  shock,  and  leapt 

To  meet  them  on  the  plain, 
And  long  the  pitying  sky  hath  wept 

Above  our  gallant  slain. 
Sons  of  one  consecrated  ground, 

We  must  not  slumber  there, 
Where  strangers'  steps  and  tongues  resound, 

Alone:  the  heedless  air. 
Your  own  proud  land's  heroic  soil 

Shall  be  your  fitter  grave  ; 
She  claims  from  war  his  richest  soil 

The  ashes  of  her  brave. 

So  'neath  their  parent  turf  they  rest, 
Far  from  the  gory  field  ; 


i$6  jane  rowley's. 

Borne  to  a  Spartan's  mother's  breast 

On  many  a  bloody  shield  ; 
The  sunshine  of  their  native  sky 

Smiles  sadly  on  them  here, 
And  kindred  hearts  and  eyes  watch  by 

The  hero's  sepulchre. 

Rest  on,  embalmed  and  sainted  dead  ! 

Dear  as  the  blood  you  gave, 
No  impious  footsteps  here  shall  tread 

The  herbage  of  your  grave  ; 
Nor  shall  your  glory  be  forgot 

While  fame  her  record  keeps, 
Or  honor  points  the  hallowed  spot 

Where  valor  proudly  sleeps. 

Yon  marble  minstrel's  voiceless  stone, 

In  deathless  songs  shall  tell 
When  many  a  banished  age  hath  flown, 

The  story  how  you  fell ; 
Nor  wreck,  nor  change,  nor  winter's  blight, 

Nor  time's  remorseless  doom, 
Shall  dim  one  ray  of  holy  light 

That  gilds  your  glorious  tomb. 


Friendship. — Love,  full  fledged,  waiting  for  a  sunny 
day  to  fly. — Byron. 


SCRAP    BOOK  157 

THE  SEA. 

BY    BARRY    CORNWALL. 

The  sea  !  the  sea  !  the  open  sea  ! 

The  blue,  the  fresh,  the  ever  free  ! 

Without  a  mark,  without  a  bound, 

It  runneth  the  earth's  wide  region  round  ; 

It  plays  with  the  clouds,  it  mocks  the  skies, 

Or  like  a  cradled  creature  lies. 

I'm  on  the  sea  !   I'm  on  the  sea  ! 

I  am  where  I  would  ever  be ; 

With  the  blue  above,  and  the  blue  below, 

And  silence  whereso'er  I  go, 

If  a  storm  should  come  and  wake  the^deep, 

What  matter  ?  I  shall  ride  and  sleep. 

I  never  was  on  the  dull,  tame  shore, 
But  I  loved  the  great  sea  more  and  more, 
And  backward  flew  to  her  billowy  breast, 
Like  a  bird  that  seeketh  its  mother's  nest ; 
And  a  mother  she  was,  and  is  to  me, 
For  I  was  born  on  the  open  sea. 

The  winds  were  loud,  and  bleak  the  morn, 
The  noisy  hour  when  I  was  born  ; 
The  whale  it  whistled,  the  porpoise  rolled, 
And  the  dolphin  bared  his  back  of  gold, 
And  never  was  heard  such  an  outcry  wild 
As  welcomed  to  life  the  ocean  child. 


158  jane  rowley's 

I  never  was  on  the  dull,  tame  shore, 
But  I  loved  the  deep  sea  more  and  more  ; 
And  backward  flew  to  its  billowy  breast 
Like  a  child  that  seeketh  its  mother's  breast. 
For  a  mother  she  was  and  is  to  me, 
For  I  was  born  on  the  open  sea. 

I've  lived  since  then  in  calm  and  strife, 
Full  fifty  winters  a  rover's  life  ; 
With  wealth  to  spend  and  power  to  range, 
And  never  had  sighed  nor  sought  for  change, 
And  death,  whenever  it  comes  to  me, 
Must  come  on  the  wild  unbroken  sea. 


ONLY  A  DOG. 

BY    GOOSEBERRY    GREEN. 

Only  a  dog  !    that  lies  there  dead, 
The  soft  eyes  dim  in  his  shaggy  head  ; 
Ah  !  I  see  you  smile  as  I  bend  to  weep, 
With  an  aching  heart  o'er  my  dog's  last  sleep. 
But  to  me  he  was  faithful,  kind  and  true, 
The  sincerest  friend  that  ever  I  knew. 
So  naught  care  I  for  your  idle  sneers, 
Or  sarcastic  jests  at  "a  woman's  tears," 
For  I  hold  it  much,  as  through  life  we  plod, 
To  win  or  loose,  e'en  the  love  of  a  dog. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  159 

DECORATION   DAY. 

BY  MRS.   M.  A.   KIDDER. 

14  Bring  flowers,  sweet  flowers," 

The  poet  said  ; 
The  lingering  echo 

Is  not  dead. 
Through  great  highways  — 

O'er  bounding  waves, 
Bring  flowers  to  deck 

A  million  graves. 

Bring  roses  red, 

And  lilies  white, 
For  fallen  heroes 

In  the  fight. 
For  soldier  boys 

We  love  so  well, 
Plant  mignonette 

And  Immortelle. 
The  leader  brave, 

Who  faced  the  foe, 
Full  many,  many 

Sleep  below. 
For  such  green  mound, 

Or  granite  tomb, 
Bring  balmy  flowers 

In  all  their  bloom. 


160  jane  rowley's 

Yea  !  North  and  South, 

And  East  and  West, 
Where'er  a  soldier 

Lies  at  rest. 
Whether  the  "blue," 

Or  whether  the  "  gray," 
Strew  dewy  garlands 

On  this  day. 

You  who  can  give 

By  your  small  mite, 
Bring  from  the  fields 

The  daisies  white 
Sweet  buttercups, 

And  golden  rod, 
To  strew  upon 

The  sacred  sod. 

The  flags  half  mast, 

Against  the  sky, 
Throughout  the  land 

Are  floating  high 
O'er  heroes,  who 

For  honor  bled 
And  nobly  died  — 

Beloved  dead  ! 

Bring  flowers,  sweet  flowers, 
From  far  and  near. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  l6l 

Oh,  men  and  maids 

And  children  dear ! 
Remember  well 

Our  nation's  braves  — 
Bring  flowers  to  deck 

A  million  graves. 


THE  MONEY  QUESTION. 

The  woman  whose  husband  gives  her  a  weekly  allow- 
ance for  household  expenses,  to  be  expended  as  she 
thinks  proper,  is  generally  happy  and  contented,  and 
takes  pride  in  her  work. 

Wives,  as  a  rule,  dislike  to  ask  their  husbands  for 
money ;  they  shrink  from  asking  for  the  wherewithal  to 
purchase  boots,  clothing  and  the  common  necessities  of 
life  ;  it  is  neither  agreeable  nor  pleasant  to  them  and  they 
should  not  be  forced  to  do  it. 

If  they  do  their  appointed  work  the  money  to  carry 
it  on  should  be  freely  offered,  monthly,  or  weekly,  as 
may  be  desired. 

Some  husbands  have  seen  how  much  their  mothers 
have  suffered  for  the  want  of  money  when  their  fathers 
were  rich,  and  they  profit  by  the  fact,  and  give  their 
wives  a  generous  supply,  never  forcing  them  to  become 
applicants  for  it,  and  by  so  doing  they  greatly  increase 
their  domestic  happiness. 


1 62  jane  rowley's 

Place  confidence  in  a  woman's  ability  to  act,  and  she 
will  fully  repay  it;  doubt  her  executive  powers  —  refuse 
her  responsibility  —  and  you  may  rue  it. 

Husbands  do  not  pay  enough  attention  to  this  subject 
of  money. 

Many  wives  of  the  middle  class  have  been  accustomed 
to  earn  their  own  support,  to  purchase  their  own  ward- 
robes before  they  were  married.  But  after  marriage  all 
is  changed  ;  they  must  ask  for  what  they  require  rather 
than  have  it  paid  to  them  quarterly. 

At  first  their  wants  are  few,  or  all  supplied  ;  but  one 
or  two  years  alter  their  outlook,  and  it  becomes  very 
dreary. 

Can  the  husband  understand  this?   he  will  tell  you  : 

"  My  wife  has  all  she  asks  for,"  never  dreaming  how 
many  days  it  requires  to  summon  her  courage  to  ask  for 
necessities. 


Debt. — Running  into  debt  often  tempts  people  to  tell 
lies.  This  made  a  great  wit  say,  "  Lying  rides  on  debt's 
back."  When  you  have  contracted  a  debt  you  may  think 
little  of  payment ;  but  creditors  have  better  memories 
than  debtors, — being  a  superstitious  sect,  great  observers 
of  days  and  times. 


True. —  If  one-half  the  people  knew  what  the  other 
said  about  them  friendship  would  be  entirely  unknown. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  163 

To  be  too  independent  with  those  we  love  is  a  mistake 
to  be  carefully  avoided,  for  excessive  independence  is  a 
barrier  that  checks  sympathy  as  effectually  as  a  rugged 
boulder  stops  the  even  flow  of  a  limpid  stream.  To 
yield  a  little,  taking  and  giving  trifling  services,  not  only 
affords  mutual  pleasure,  but  serves  to  draw  closer  the 
silken  threads  of  love,  the  tension  of  which,  even  with 
our  most  intimate  ones,  is  apt  sometimes  to  slacken,  need- 
ing careful  watching  lest  the  threads  snap  entirely. 


THE  STAR-SPANGLED  BANNER. 

BY    FRANCIS    S.    KEY. 

Oh  !  say,  can  you  see,  by  the  dawn's  early  light, 

What  so  proudly  we  hailed  at  twilight's  last  gleaming? 
Whose  broad  stripes  and  bright  stars,  through  the  peri- 
lous fight, 
O'er    the    rampart    we    watched,    were    so    gallantly 
streaming, 
And  the  rockets'  red  glare,  the  bombs  bursting  in  air, 
Gave  proof  through  the  night  that  our  flag  was  still 
there ; 
Oh  !  say,  does  that  star-spangled  banner  yet  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave  ? 

On  the  shore,  dimly  seen  through  the  mist  of  the  deep, 
Where  the  foe's  haughty  host  in  dread  silence  reposes, 


164  jane  rowley's 

What  is  that  which  the  breeze,  o'er  towering  steep, 
As  it  fitfully  blows,  half  conceals,  half  discloses? 

Now  it  catches  the  gleam  of  the  morning's  first  beam, 
In  full  glory  reflected  now  shines  on  the  stream  ; 

'Tis  the  star-spangled  banner  !  Oh,  long  may  it  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave  ! 

And  where  is  that  band,  who  so  vauntingly  swore 

That  the  havoc  of  war  and  the  battle's  confusion, 
A  home  and  a  country  should  leave  us  no  more  ? 

Their  blood  has  washed  out  their  foul  footsteps'  pollu- 
tion. 
No  refuge  could  save  the  hireling  and  slave, 

From  the  terror  of  death  and  the  gloom  of  the  grave  ; 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  shall  wave 

O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave  ! 


Sincerity,  thou  first  of  virtues,  let  no  mortal  leave  thy 
onward  path  to  take  dissimulation's  winding  ways, 
though  hell  should  gap  and  cry  destruction  at  thee. — 
Lady  Randolph. 


A  good  book  and  a  woman  arc  excellent  things  for 
those  who  know  how  to  justly  appreciate  their  value. 
There  are  men,  however,  who  judge  of  both  from  the 
beauty  of  their  covering. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  165 

HOME  MUSIC. 

A  house  without  music  is  like  a  nursery  without 
children  —  silent,  gloomy  and  desolate.  Music  is  the 
harmonic  soul  of  life,  breathed  or  suggested  everywhere 
in  nature,  and  only  absent  from  the  lips  and  hearts  of  those 
who  are  "fit  for  treason,  stratagems  and  spoils."  The 
influence  of  music  is  not  only  soothing  and  delightful  to 
the  ear,  but  is  refining,  purifying,  and  exalting  to  the 
mind  and  heart. 

The  soul  lives  its  rarest  hours  in  an  atmosphere  of 
melody  and  song,  and  we  contemplate  Paradise  not  un- 
fittingly as  realizing  our  supremest  dreams  of  felicity, 
with  its  musical  enchantments,  its  hymning  seraphs,  who 
u  adore  and  burn  "  with  extacies  that  can  find  utterance 
only  in  song.  Universal  experience  attests  that  the  habit- 
uation of  childhood  to  pleasant  music — as  to  the  presence 
of  flowers  —  is  one  of  the  secret  means  of  softening:  down 
harsh  tempers  and  evil  passions  in  the  bud.  Children 
cannot  grow  up  rude  and  boisterous  in  the  midst  of  har- 
mony and  beauty.  Music  at  home  is  a  recreation  for  the 
daughter  and  an  attraction  for  the  son.  Make  home 
bright,  musical  and  joyous,  and  few  will  fly  from  it  to 
the  world's  corrupting  diversions  and  excitements. 


Home. —  There's  magic  in  that  little  word,  it  is  a 
magic  circle  that  surrounds  comforts  and  virtues  never 
known  beyond  the  hallowed  limit. 


1 66  jane  rowley's 

A  PATRIOT'S  LAST  APPEAL. 

ROBERT    EMMET. 

Let  no  man  dare,  when  I  am  dead,  to  charge  me  with 
dishonor.  I  would  not  have  submitted  to  a  foreign  op- 
pressor, for  the  same  reason  that  I  would  resist  the  present 
domestic  oppressor.  In  the  dignity  of  freedom,  I  would 
have  fought  on  the  threshold  of  my  country,  and  its 
enemy  should  only  enter  by  passing  over  my  lifeless 
corpse.  And  am  I,  who  lived  but  for  my  country,  and 
who  have  subjected  myself  to  the  dangers  of  a  jealous 
and  watchful  oppressor,  and  the  bondage  of  the  grave, 
only  to  give  my  countrymen  their  rights  and  my  country 
its  independence  —  am  I  to  be  loaded  with  calumny  and 
not  suffered  to  resent  or  repel  it?     No,  God  forbid  ! 

If  the  spirit  of  the  illustrious  dead  participate  in  the 
concerns  and  cares  of  those  who  are  dear  to  them  in  their 
transitory  life,  O,  ever-dear  and  venerable  shade  of  my 
departed  father,  look  down  with  scrutiny  upon  the  con- 
duct of  your  suffering  son,  and  see  if  I  have  ever  for  a 
moment  deviated  from  the  principles  of  morality  and 
patriotism  which  it  was  your  care  to  instil  into  my 
youthful  mind,  and  for  which  I  am  now  to  offer  up  my 
life. 

My  lords,  you  are  impatient  for  the  sacrifice  —  the 
blood  which  you  seek  is  not  congealed  by  the  artificial 
terrors   that   surround  your  victim  ;   it  circulates  warm 


SCRAP    BOOK.  ,  167 

and  unruffled  through  the  channels  which  God  created 
for  nobler  purposes,  but  which  you  are  bent  to  destroy 
for  purposes  so  grievous  that  they  cry  to  Heaven. 

Be  ye  patient !  I  have  but  a  few  more  words  to  say.  I 
am  going  to  my  cold  and  silent  grave  ;  my  lamp  of  life 
is  nearly  extinguished  ;  my  race  is  run  ;  the  grave  opens 
to  receive  me,  and  I  sink  into  its  bosom  !  I  have  but  one 
request  to  ask  at  my  departure  from  this  world,  it  is  the 
charity  of  its  silence  !  Let  no  man  write  my  epitaph  ; 
for  as  no  man  who  knows  my  motives  dares  vindicate 
them,  let  not  prejudice  or  ignorance  asperse  them.  Let 
them  and  me  repose  in  obscurity  and  peace,  and  my 
tomb  remain  uninscribed,  until  other  times  and  other 
men  can  do  justice  to  my  character.  When  my  country 
takes  her  place  among  the  nations  of  the  earth,  then,  and 
not  till  then,  let  my  epitaph  be  written.     I  have  done. 


It  is  a  very  indiscreet  and  troublesome  ambition  which 
cares  so  much  about  fame  ;  about  what  the  world  says 
about  us  ;  to  be  always  looking  in  the  face  of  others  for 
approval. 

The  world  caresses  the  rich,  however  deficient  in  in- 
tellect or  morals,  and  avoids  the  poor  man  of  merit  in 
the  thread-bare  coat. 


Prodigals  live  as  if  they  had  but  a  short  time  to  exist, 
but  misers  as  if  they  were  never  to  die. 


1 68  jane  rowley's 

FROM  "GOOD  HOUSEKEEPING." 

The  idea  of  marriage  is  the  object  of  life  —  an  end 
for  which  girls  are  to  be  trained  appears  often  to  be  the 
verv  stumbling  block  in  the  way.  If  they  are  allowed  to 
grow  up  thinking  of  marriage  only  as  a  possibility,  as  an 
incident  in  their  lives  which  may  or  may  not  happen, 
will  they  not  be  better  prepared  for  whatever  fortune  may 
have  in  store  for  them  ?  Freed  from  that  anxiety  about 
their  future  which  characterizes  many  young  women, 
there  would  seem  to  be  a  chance  that  they  might  be 
trained  to  be  happy  and  to  make  others  happy  whether 
they  were  married  or  single While  acknowledg- 
ing that  a  well-assorted  marriage  is,  without  doubt,  the 
truest  and  best  life  for  man  or  woman,  can  it  be  denied  that 
an  unhappy  union  is  the  greatest  of  sorrows  in  a  woman's 
life,  to  say  nothing  of  the  train  of  evils  which  it  brings 
upon  others  ?  If  this  idea  that  marriage  is  the  great  ob- 
ject—  the  necessity  of  woman's  life  —  could  be  removed, 
there  would  certainly  be  more  suitable  and  fortunate 
unions  and  fewer  of  the  hasty,  ill-considered,  unwise 
ones.  So  long  as  two  people  who  know  little  of  each 
other's  present  character,  tastes  and  habits,  and  nothing 
of  each  other's  antecedents,  will  rashly  join  themselves 
for  life  after  an  acquaintance  of  a  few  weeks,  so  long 
must  we  look  for  the  horrors  of  the  newspapers,  the 
scandals  of  the  divorce  courts,  and  the  life-long  martyrdom 


SCRAP    BOOK.  i6o, 

of  those  who  bear  the  ill  they  cannot  fly  from.  If  girls 
did  not  learn  from  those  about  them,  from  much  of  their 
teaching,  from  the  very  atmosphere  of  society,  that  they 
were  expected  to  marry  somebody,  they  would  hardly 
deem  it  possible  to  take  such  a  risk  as  that  of  marriage 
without  due  consideratoin.  They  would  wait  for  the 
certainty  that  it  was  the  right  thing  to  do,  and  that  the 
right  person  for  them  had  appeared. 

Let  them  feel  that  the  end  and  aim  of  their  lives  is  to 
be  fit  to  be  women  and  to  fill  their  places  as  such  in  the 
world  that  so  much  needs  both  good  women  and  good 
men,  and  there  is  no  fear  that  they  will  not  be  quite  equal 
to  the  situation  it  they  find  it  best  for  their  happiness  to 
marry.  

Make  other  men's  shipwreck  thy  sea  mark. 


A  SIMILE. 


In  a  Devonshire  lane  as  I  trotted  along, 
'Tother  day,  much  in  want  of  a  subject  for  song, 
Thinks  I  to  myself,  perhaps  inspired  by  the  rain, 
Sure  marriage  is  much  like  a  Devonshire  lane. 

In  the  first  plaee  'tis  long ;    and  when  once  you  are  in  it, 
It  holds  you  as  fast  as  a  cage  holds  a  linnet ; 
For  however  rough  and  dirty  the  road  may  be  found, 
Drive  forward  you  must,  for  there's  no  turning  round. 


170  jane  rowley's 

But  though  'tis  so  long,  it  is  not  very  wide, 
For  two  are  the  most  that  together  can  ride  ; 
And  e'en  then  'tis  a  chance  hut  they  get  in  a  pother, 
And  jostle,  and  cross,  and  run  foul  of  each  other. 

For  poverty  greets  them  with  mendicant  looks, 
And  care  pushes  by  them  with  o'erladen  crooks, 
And  strife's  jarring  wheels  strive  between  them  to  pass, 
And  stubbornness  blocks  up  the  way  on  her  ass. 

Then  the  banks  are  so  high,  both  to  left  hand  and  right, 
That  they  shut  out  the  beauties  around  from  the  sight ; 
And  hence  you'll  allow,  'tis  an  inference  plain, 
That  marriage  is  just  like  a  Devonshire  lane. 


SOMEBODY'S  MOTHER. 

The  woman  was  old,  and  ragged,  and  gray, 
And  bent  with  the  chill  of  the  winter's  day. 

The  street  was  wet  with  the  winter's  snow, 
And  the  woman's  feet  were  aged  and  slow. 

She  stood  at  the  crossing  and  waited  long, 
Alone,  uncarcd  for,  amid  a  throng 

Of  human  beings  who  passed  her  by, 
Nor  heeded  the  glance  of  her  anxious  eye. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  171 

Down  the  street  with  laughter  and  shout, 
Glad  in  the  freedom  of  school  let  out, 

Came  the  boys  like  a  flock  of  sheep, 
Hailing  the  snow  piled  white  and  deep. 

Past  the  woman,  so  old  and  gray, 
Hasten  the  children  on  their  way. 

Nor  offered  a  helping  hand  to  her, 
So  meek,  so  timid,  afraid  to  stir, 

Lest  the  carriage  wheels  or  horse's  feet, 
Should  crowd  her  down  in  the  slippery  street. 

At  last  came  one  of  the  merry  troop  — 
The  gayest  laddie  of  all  the  group. 

He  paused  beside  her,  and  whispered  low  : 
"  I'll  help  you  across  if  you  wish  to  go." 

Her  aged  hand  on  his  strong  young  arm 
She  placed,  and  without  a  hurt  or  harm, 

He  guided  the  trembling  feet  along, 
Proud  that  his  own  were  firm  and  strong. 

Then  back  again  to  his  friends  he  went, 
His  young  heart  happy  and  well  content. 

"  She's  somebody's  mother,  boys,  you  knowy 
For  all  she's  old,  and  poor  and  slow ; 


172  jane  rowley's 

**  And  1  hope  some  fellow  will  lend  a  hand 
To  help  my  mother,  you  understand, 

*'  If  ever  she's  old,  and  poor,  and  gray, 
When  her  own  dear  boy  is  far  away." 

And  "  somebody's  mother  "  bowed  low  her  head 
In  her  home  that  night,  and  the  prayer  she  said 

Was,  "  God  be  kind  to  the  noble  boy 

Who  is  somebody's  son,  and  pride  and  joy." 


GREAT  VARIETIES. 

A  great  woman  not  imperious, 
A  fair  woman  not  vain, 
A  woman  of  common  talent  not  jealous, 
An  accomplished  woman  who  scorns  to  shine, 
Are  four  wonders  great  enough  to  be  divided 
amongst  the  four  quarters  of  the  world. 


Hail,  ye  small,  sweet  courtesies  of  life,  for  smooth  do 
you  make  the  road  of  it,  like  grace  and  beauty  which 
beget  inclinations,  to  love  at  first  sight ;  'tis  ye  that  open 
this  door  and  let  the  stranger  in. 


Harmless  mirth  is  the  best  cordial  against  the  con- 
sumption of  spirits  ;  wherefore  jesting  is  not  unlawful, 
if  it  trespass  not  in  quantity,  quality,  or  season. 


SCRAP    BOOK. 


WOMAN'S  FATE. 


BY    THE    HON.    MRS.    NORTON. 


'73 


Oh  !  be  not  thou  cast  down,  because  thy  lot 

The  glory  of  thy  dream  resembleth  not ; 

Not  for  herself  was  woman  first  create, 

Nor  yet  to  be  man's  idol,  but  his  mate. 

Still,  from  his  birth,  his  cradle  bed  she  tends 

The  first,  the  last,  the  faithfulest  of  friends ! 

Still  finds  her  place  in  sickness  or  in  woe, 

Humble  to  comfort,  strong  to  undergo  ; 

Still  in  the  depth  of  weeping  sorrow,  tries 

To  watch  his  death-bed  with  her  patient  eyes ! 

And  doubt  not  though — (Although  at  times  deceived 

Outraged,  insulted,  slandered,  crushed,  and  grieved 

Too  often  made  a  victim  or  a  toy. 

With  years  of  sorrow,  for  an  hour  of  joy  ; 

To  oft  forgot  'midst  pleasure's  circling  wiles, 

Or  only  valued  for  her  rosy  smiles) — 

That  in  the  frank  and  generous  heart  of  man, 

The  place  she  holds  accords  with  heaven's  high  plan ! 

Still,  if  from  wandering  sin  reclaimed  at  all, 

He  sees  in  her  the  angel  of  recall ; 

Still,  in  the  sad  and  serious  ills  of  life, 

Turns  to  the  sister,  mother,  friend  or  wife  ; 

Views  with  a  heart  of  fond  and  trustful  pride, 

His  faithful  partner  by  his  calm  fireside  ; 


i*4  jane  rowley's 

And  oft,  when  barred  of  fortune's  fickle  grace, 

Leaves  his  faint  head  upon  her  kindly  breast 

And  owns  her  power  to  soothe  him  into  rest. 

Owns  what  the  gift  of  woman's  love  is  worth 

To  cheer  his  toils  and  trials  upon  earth  ! 

Sure  it  is  much,  this  delegated  power, 

To  be  consoler  of  Man's  heaviest  hour  ! 

The  guardian  angel  of  a  life  of  care, 

Allowed  to  stand  'twixt  him  and  his  despair. 

Such  service  may  be  made  a  holy  task  ; 

And  more  'twere  vain  to  hope,  and  vain  to  ask 

There,  O  loved  and  lovely  be  content 

And  take  thy  lot  with  joy  and  sorrow  blent. 

Judge  none  ;  yet  let  thy  share  of  conduct  be, 

As  knowing  judgment  shall  be  passed  on  thee, 

Here  and  hereafter  ;   so  still  undismayed, 

And  guarded  by  the  sweet  thought's  tranquil  shade, 

Undazzled  by  the  changeful  rays  which  threw 

Their  light  across  thy  path,  while  life  was  new, 

Thou  shalt  move  sober  on  —  expecting  less, 

Therefore  the  more  enjoying  happiness. 


He  that  is  not  handsome  at  twenty,  nor  strong  at 
thirty,  nor  rich  at  forty,  nor  wise  at  fifty,  will  never  be 
handsome,  strong,  rich,  or  wise. 

He  is  wise  who  considers  water  his  best  and  only 
drink. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  175 

THE  HEART. 
Oh  !  give  me  the  heart  that  with  feeling  is  fraught, 
A  heart  that  is  pure,  that  with  gold  is  unbought, 
A  heart  that's  unchangeable,  gentle,  alive, 
That  kindly  can  chide  and  another's  ne'er  rive. 

How  happy  the  friends  are,  whose  hearts  are  like  this, 
Their  parting  is  pain,  but  their  meeting  is  bliss  ; 
They  feel  what  one-half  of  the  world  ne'er  can  know, 
Their  friendship  on  earth  is  a  heaven  below. 

When  self  round  the  heart  is  too  firmly  entwined, 
It  then  leaves  us  naught  but  the  wreck  of  a  mind, 
And  oh  !  such  a  wreck,  many  choose  for  their  lot ; 
Let  theirs  be  the  pleasure  —  I  envy  them  not. 

Their  friendship  is  coldness,  their  sympathy's  gone, 
They  inhabit  a  dark  world,  unheeded,  unknown  ; 
No  sun,  howe'er  bright,  can  illumine  their  way, 
For  no  sun  shines  on  them  with  an  unclouded  ray. 

Then  give  me  a  heart  to  which  friendship  is  dear, 
That  balm,  which  alone  our  sad  moments  can  cheer  — 
And  brighten  our  way  through  this  dark  world  of  woe, 
Where  a  nominal  friend  is  the  deadliest  foe. 


RESPECTABILITY. 

Pray,  what  do  you  mean  by  "  Respectability?" 
Is  it  wisdom,  or  worth,  sir,  rank,  or  gentility  — 


176  jane  rowley's 

Is  it  rough  sound  sense  or  a  manner  refined  — 

Is  it  kindness  of  heart  or  expansion  of  mind  — 

Is  it  learning,  or  talent,  or  honor,  or  fame 

That  you  mean  by  that  phrase  (so  expressive)  to  name? 

No,  no  —  these  are  not,  sir,  the  things  now  in  vogue, 

A  respectable  person,  sir,  may  be  a  great  rogue. 

A  respectable  person  may  be  a  great  fool, 

Have  lost  even  the  little  he  picked  up  at  school ; 

Be  a  glutton,  a  spendthrift,  deep  drown'd  in  debt, 

May  forfeit  his  honor,  his  best  friend  forget : 

May  be  a  great  sycophant,  tyrant,  or  knave, 

But  a  livery  servant,  at  least  he  must  have  ; 

In  vice  he  may  vie  with  the  vilest  of  sinners, 

But  he  must  keep  a  cook,  and  give  capital  dinners. 


MONEY. 


The  burly  smith,  with  shoulders  strong  and  broad, 
His  sledge  and  hammer  doth  alternate  ply ; 
The  horse  outside  is  waiting  to  be  shod, 
While  bellows  roar,  and  sparks  around  him  fly. 
The  shoes  are  fashioned,  punched,  and  fit  to  try, 
Then  what  does  all  this  noise  and  sparks  imply? 
The  wish  to  gain  some  money. 

The  carpenter  is  working  at  his  bench, 
With  chisel,  mallet,  mortising  some  wood.; 
He  moves  his  augur  round  with  steady  wrench, 


SCRAP    BOOK.  177 

To  aid  the  chisel  making  mortice  good  ; 
Time  saving  is  by  him  well  understood  ; 
Then  why  this  thought,  this  work,  this  earnest  mood?  — 
The  wish  to  gain  some  money. 

The  sailor  braves  the  dangers  of  the  deep, 
The  winds,  the  waves,  the  hidden  rocks,  the  shore, 
The  chilling  cold,  the  toil,  the  want  of  sleep, 
These  hardships  and  privations  —  many  more 
He  knows  full  well  are  still  for  him  in  store, 
Then  why  not  leave  the  ocean  and  its  roar  ?  — 
The  wish  to  gain  some  money. 

The  lawyer  with  his  glib  and  ready  tongue, 
Takes  up  his  client's  cause  with  full  intent 
To  make,  if  needful,  right  appear  the  wrong  ; 
And  to  mislead,  and  also  circumvent 
The  jurors'  minds  —  Can  lawyers  thus  assent 
To  wiles  which  honesty  could  not  invent  ?  — 
No  doubt  to  earn  some  money. 

Behold  the  merchant  full  of  care  and  toil ; 
His  mind  so  much  intent  on  wealth  and  gain, 
And  fearful  lest  some  accident  should  spoil 
His  cherished  hopes  —  his  efforts  be  in  vain. 
And  all  the  plannings  of  that  busy  brain  — 
Then  why  subject  himself  to  so  much  pain? 
His  grasping  love  of  money. 


178  jane  rowley's 

Some  statesmen,  also,  Tory  if  not  Whig: 
They  surely  look  alone  to  country's  good ; 
Though  not  obliged  to  weave,  to  forge,  to  dig, 
They  sometimes  show,  alas  !  a  grasping  mood, 
And  strive  for  place,  as  humbler  persons  would. 
Then  why  such  striving,  mean,  and  often  rude? 
Simply  to  gain  some  money. 

And  thus  in  every  class  and  grade  of  men 
The  love  of  money  holds  its  potent  sway, 
The  smith,  the  sailor,  lawyer,  statesman,  then 
Each  longs  for  it  in  his  peculiar  way ; 
And  yet,  while  often  it  leads  men  astray, 
Still  of  its  widespread  hold  is  no  decay, 

This  love  by  all  for  money. 

A  Modern  Thersites. 

Belfast,  November,  1SS5. 


WHEN  I  AM   DEAD. 


BY  FRANKLIN  P.   DALY. 


When  I  am  dead, 
I  would  not  have  the  rude  and  gaping  crowd 
Around  me  gather,  and  'mid  lamentation  loud, 
Tell  of  my  virtues,  and  with  vain  regret 
Bemoan  my  loss,  and,  leaving  me,  so  soon  forget, 
But  I  would  have  the  few,  the  kindly  heart, 


SCRAP    BOOK.  179 

Who,  when  misfortune  came,  so  nobly  did  their  part, 
And  oft  by  thoughtful  deed  their  love  express — 
These  would  I  have,  no  more,  no  less  — 
When  I  am  dead. 

When  I  am  dead, 
I  would  not  have  the  high  and  storied  stone 
Placed  o'er  mv  grave,  and  then  be  left  alone  ; 
But  I  would  have  some  living  thing  I  once  did  love. 
Ere  I  did  leave  the  joyous  world  above, 
Placed  o'er  me,  and  in  each  succeeding  year 
I'd  have  my  friends  renew  them,  and  oft  linger  near, 
With  loving  thoughts  upon  the  dear  one  laid  below, 
And  talk  of  times  departed  long  ago, 

When  I  am  dead. 


When  I  am  dead, 
Forgive  —  O,  this  I  pray  for  more  than  all  — 
The  anguish  I  have  caused,  the  deed  beyond  recall, 
Think  kindly  on  me  as  I  lie,  so  cold,  so  still, 
So  poor  a  subject  for  thine  angered  ill. 
Think  of  some  generous  deed,  some  good  word  spoken, 
Of  hearts  bound  up  I  found  so  sad  and  broken ; 
Think  gently,  when  this  last  long  rest  is  mine, 
And  gaze  upon  my  form  with  looks  benign  — 

When  I  am  dead  ! 


180  jane  rowley's 

THE  FORGE. 

BY  T.    D.    S. 
I. 

Oh,  if  you'd  like  to  learn  in  a  cheap  and  cosy  school, 
The  ins  and  outs  of  politics,  of  home  and  foreign  rule ; 
How  nations  should  he  governed,  and   how  empires  rise 

and  fall, 
Drop  into  Paddy  Gowan's  forge,  and  there  you'll  hear  it 
all. 

Oh,  clink-clank,  clink-clank, 

Blow,  bellows,  blow, 
Till  the  fire  is  spurting  brightly 

And  the  iron  is  aglow  ; 
And  his  hammer  on  the  anvil 
Comes  ringing  fast  and  free, 
And  he  clinches  all  his  arguments 
With  one,  two,  three  ! 

II. 

By  force  of  honest  intellect,  unhelped  by  bookish  skill, 
He  settles  social  questions  that  might  puzzle  Stuart  Mill ; 
He  knows  how  taxes  should   be  raised,  and  how  they 

should  be  spent, 
And  how  poor  Ireland    has  been   robbed,  and  where  her 
money  went. 

Oh,  clink-clank,  clink-clank, 
Blow,  bellows,  blow, 


SCRAP     BOOK.  l8l 

Till  the  fire  is  spurting  brightly 

And  the  iron  is  aglow  ; 
And  his  hammer  on  the  anvil 

Comes  ringing  fast  and  free, 
And  he  clinches  all  his  arguments 

With  one,  two,  three  ! 

III. 

He  loves  the  Irish  members  who  are  fighting  for  the 

cause  — 
Brave  Sexton,  and  O'Connor,  and  Healey  of  the  clause, 
But  when  they  were  in  petticoats  was  he  not  heard  to  say 
The  thing  to  do  in  Parliament  was  what  they  do  to-day? 
Oh,  clink-clank,  clink-clank, 

Blow,  bellows,  blow, 
Till  the  fire  is  spurting  brightly 

And  the  iron  is  aglow  ; 
And  his  hammer  on  the  anvil 

Comes  ringing  fast  and  free, 
And  he  clinches  all  his  arguments 
With  one,  two,  three  ! 

IV. 

Oh,  many  a  boy  now  working  to  set  dear  Erin  free, 
In  Ireland,  and  in  England,  and  far  beyond  the  sea, 
First  learnt  his  patriot  lessons  and  felt  the  proud  desire 
Of  freedom  kindle  in  his  soul  by  Paddy's  flashing  fire. 


i8z 


JANE    ROWLEY  S 

Oh,  clink-clank,  clink-clank, 

Blow,  bellows,  blow, 
Till  the  fire  is  spurting  brightly 

And  the  iron  is  aglow  ; 
And  his  hammer  on  the  anvil 

Comes  ringing  fast  and  free, 
And  he  clinches  all  his  arguments 

With  one,  two,  three  ! 


Long  life  to  Paddy  Gowan  !  God  save  him  from  all  harm, 
God  keep  the  spirit  in  his  heart,  the  vigor  in  his  arm  ! 
God  bless    his  roadside  college  !    for  our   schools,  alas ! 

are  few 
Where  Ireland's  cause  has  teachers  so  noble  and  so  true ! 
Oh,  clink-clank,  clink-clank, 

Blow,  bellows,  blow, 
Till  the  fire  is  spurting  brightly 

And  the  iron  is  aglow  ; 
And  his  hammer  on  the  anvil 

Comes  ringing  fast  and  free, 
And  he  clinches  all  his  arguments 
With  one,  two,  three. 


Labor. —  Labor  is  life!  'tis  the  still  water  faileth  ; 
idleness  ever  despaireth,  bewaileth ;  keep  the  watch 
wound,  or  the  dark  rust  assaileth. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  183 

How  to  Talk  Well. —  The  art  of  agreeable  con- 
versation is  one  which  all  men  admire  and  most  men  are 
anxious  to  learn.  There  are  few  subjects  upon  which 
young  people  oftener  seek  advice  from  those  whose 
greater  experience  enables  them  to  give  wise  counsel. 
It  is  frequently  said  of  many  kinds  of  teaching  that  ex- 
ample is  better  than  precept ;  but  this  is  not  so  with 
regard  to  the  art  of  conversation.  You  may  hear  a  man 
talk  with  wonderful  brilliancy,  and  yet  talk  no  better 
yourself  than  you  did  before.  You  must  have  rules  to 
observe  rather  than  persons  to  imitate.  Boswell  accounts 
for  the  extraordinary  accuracy  and  flow  of  language  of 
Dr.  Johnson  by  saying  that  "  he  had  early  laid  it  down 
as  a  fixed  rule  to  do  his  best,  on  every  occasion  and  in 
every  company,  to  impart  whatever  he  knew  in  the  most 
forcible  language  he  could  put  it  in,  and  that,  by  constant 
practice,  and  never  suffering  any  careless  expression  to 
escape  him,  or  attempting  to  deliver  his  thoughts  with- 
out arranging  them  in  the  clearest  manner,  it  became 
habitual  to  him."  The  course  which  was  pursued  by  so 
eminent  a  scholar,  whose  conversational  powers  alone 
sufficed  to  make  him  celebrated,  may  well  be  followed 
by  the  youth  of  our  day  who  wish  to  learn  the  much- 
coveted  art  of  conversation. 


A  friend  is  to  a  friend,  sun  and  sun-flower ;  at  once 
he  attracts  and  is  attracted. 


184  Jane  rowley's. 

THE  HARP  OF  O'CAROLAN. 

BY    M.    D.    JONES. 

I. 
THE     WELCOME. 

Forth  of  a  silence  weird  and  olden, 
But  for  her  tears  had  been  all  golden, 

Whose  cup  of  sorrow  overran  ; 
Tuned  to  the  heart-beats  of  her  bosom, 
Who,  smiling,  sees  her  hopes  in  blossom, 
They  bring  the  harp  of  O'Carolan 
And  they  sing  us  the  songs  of  O'Carolan  ! 
Taken  from  Sorrow's  weeping  willows, 
To  catch  the  spray  of  briny  billows, 

Those  tears  of  joy  space  scarce  can  span  ; 
Wakened  by  sea-winds  west-ward  blowing, 
Till  all  thy  golden  chords  are  glowing 
With  the  heart  and  soul  of  O'Carolan  — 
Thrice  welcome,  Harp  of  O'Carolan  ! 

Kissed  by  the  sunburst  round  thee  clinging, 
Proud  of  the  shamrock,  with  it  bringing 

Hope  for  the  universal  man, 
Come,  Harp  oflnnisfail,  the  fearless, 
And  fill  the  eyelids  of  the  tearless 

With  the  righteous  wrath  of  O'Carolan  — 
With  the  joyous  tears  of  O'Carolan  ! 


SCRAP     BOOK.  185 

In  the  New  World's  harbor  kindly  greeted, 
Where  Music's  soul  is  never  cheated 

Of  one  sweet  charm  by  blight  or  ban  ; 
Thrilled  with  the  strange  and  strong  emotion 
That  sways  the  soul  this  side  the  ocean, 

Thrice  welcome,  Harp  of  O'Carolan  — 

The  songs  and  the  soul  of  O'Carolan  ! 

II. 

THE    FAREWELL. 

Farewell,  brave  Harp,  to  her  returning 
For  whom  unnumbered  hearts  are  yearning, 

Whose  cup  of  joy  too  soon  o'erran  ; 
Oh  !  if  there  be  the  least  despairing 
Or  drooping  in  her  glance  or  bearing, 

Comfort  her,  Harp  of  O'Carolan  — 

Kindle  her  courage,  O'Carolan  ! 

Lift  up  thy  voice  so  lark-like  loud, 

So  clear,  despite  the  passing  cloud, 
A  friendly  sky  she  still  may  scan  ; 

And,  looking  up,  cease  not  to  see 

The  golden  sun  of  Liberty, 

That  kindled  the  soul  of  O'Carolan  — 
The  songs  and  the  Harp  of  O'Carolan ! 

Harp  of  the  brave,  on  Freedom's  height 
We  heard,  with  hers  attuned  aright ! 
Refuse  the  fires  of  hate  to  fan  ; 


1 86 


JANE    ROWLEYS 


But  be  a  fountain,  cool  and  sweet, 

Amid  the  conflict's  torrid  heat, 

For  thou  art  the  Harp  of  O'Carolan  — 
And  the  song  is  the  song  of  O'Carolan  I 

Lest  her  songs  be  sung  by  slavish  rote, 

The  passion  native  to  thy  note 

Lose  not,  echoed  from  clan  to  clan  ! 

Be  strains  like  thine  the  heavenly  vent 

And  healing  of  her  discontent ; 

While  calm-voiced  Patience  steadies  the  van 
Of  her  conquering  cohorts,  O'Carolan  ! 


"GOD  SAVE  LIBERTY." 

BY  J.  J.    M. 

Wake  !  sons  of  Erin,  wake  ! 
Great  freedom's  cause  uptake  ! 

Your  rights  defend  ' 
Stand  in  your  new  given  power  I 
Stand  in  your  manhood's  dower  ! 
Stand  !  though  grim  tyrants  lower, 

To  make  you  bend. 

Think  !  ye  who  till  the  ground  ; 
And  ye  whose  lives  are  bound, 
In  labor's  grove ! 


SCRAP     BOOK.  187 

Whose  hand  has  wrenched  the  chain 
That  fettered  heart  and  brain? 
Let  not  his  toil  be  vain  ! 
Nor  ingrates  prove  ! 

Strange  leaders  bid  for  place  : 
But  let  all  hirelings  grace 

The  hireling  crew  ! 
We  will  like  one  agree, 
And  trust  our  liberty 
With  him  who  made  us  free, 

Old  Gladstone  true. 


It  is  not  in  the  mountains,  in  the  palaces  of  pride, 
That  love,  the  winged  wizard,  is  contented  to  abide, 
In  meek  and  humble  spirits,  the  truest  love  is  found, 
As  the  lark  that  sings  in  Heaven,  builds  her  nest  upon 

the  ground, 
His  cradle  is  the  lilly,  by  the  breath  of  autumn  stirred 
For  love  is  often  shaken  by  the  whispering  of  a  word ; 
His    smile    is    in   the    sunshine,  and   his  voice  is  in  the 

glade, 
Oh !  that  winter  should  o'ertake  it  with  its  silence  and 

its  shade. 

The  soul  never  assents  to  sin,  and  weeps  with  the 
angels  when  the  form  in  which  it  dwells  violates  the 
sacred  obligations  thus  imposed  upon  it. 


iSS  jane  rowley's 

OH !    FLY  TO  THE  HILLS. 

BY   WILLIAM    GRAHAM. 

"Miss  Janet  Makinzie  plighted  her  troth  to  the  young  advocate,  as 
60on  as  he  agreed  to  assume  the  white  cockade,  and  she  sent  him  forth  to 
win  her  hand  by  perilling  his  own  life  in  a  contest,  which  to  all  except 
the  enthusiastic,  appeared  desperate." 

Oh  !  fly  to  the  hills  where  our  banner  is  borne, 
To  float  in  the  breezes  and  welcome  the  morn, 
When  its  folds  will  unfurl  to  the  breath  of  the  sky, 
When  thousands  are  panting  to  conquer  or  die, 
And  when  you  return  with  your  claymore  and  plaid, 
I  will  weave  a  love  knot  for  your  bonnie  cockade. 

He  knelt  by  his  mistress,  and  vowed  on  that  night 
By  his  hope  of  her  love,  to  rush  forth  to  the  fight ; 
And  he  kissed  her  pale  cheek  as  he  faltered  adieu  ! 
While  the  tears  of  affection  fell  warm  on  the  dew. 
And  high  beat  the  heart  of  the  Jacobin  maid 
As  she  prayed  for  success  to  his  bonnie  cockade. 

Oh  !  love  thou  art  nurtured  in  sorrow  and  tears, 
And  the  anguish  of  mortals  thy  pastime  appears, 
While  the  maiden  looked  out  for  her  lover  in  vain 
To  sleep  on  her  bosom,  he  slept  with  the  slain, 
And  never  came  back  with  his  claymore  and  plaid 
From  the  grave  where  his  love  and  allegiance  were  laid. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  189 

ALLEN  a'DALE. 

BY    SIR    WALTER    SCOTT. 

Allen  a'  Dale  has  no  faggot  for  burning, 
Allen  a'  Dale  has  no  furrow  for  turning, 
Allen  a'  Dale  has  no  fleece  for  the  spinning, 
Yet  Allen  a'  Dale  has  red  gold  for  the  winning. 
Come  read  me  my  riddle,  come  hearken  my  tale, 
And  tell  me  the  craft  of  Allen  a'  Dale. 

The  baron  of  Ravensworth  prances  in  pride, 
And  he  views  his  domains  upon  Arkendale  side, 
The  mere  for  his  net,  and  the  land  for  his  game, 
The  chase  for  the  wild,  and  the  park  for  the  tame  ; 
Yet  the  fish  of  the  lake,  and  the  deer  of  the  vale, 
Are  less  free  to  Lord  Darce  than  Allen  a'  Dale. 

Allen  a'  Dale  was  ne'er  belted  a  knight, 

Though   his   spear   be   as    sharp,    and    his   blade  be  as 

bright ; 
Allen  a'  Dale  is  no  baron  nor  lord, 
Yet  twenty  tall  yoemen  will  draw  at  his  word, 
And  the  best  of  our  nobles  their  bonnets  will  veil, 
When  at  Rerecrass  or  Stanmore  meets  Allen  a'  Dale. 

Allen  a'Dale  to  his  wooing  is  come, 

The  mother  she  asks  or  his  house  and  his  home, 

Though  the  castle  of  Richmond  snatds  fair  on  the  hill, 


190  jane  rowley's 

My  hall,  quoth  bold  Allen,  stands  gallanter  still. 
'Tis  the  blue  vault  of  heaven,  and  its  crescent  so  pale, 
And  with  all  its  bright  spangles,  said  Allen  a'  Dale. 
The  father  was  steel,  and  the  mother  was  stone, 
They  lifted  the  latch,  and  they  bid  him  begone ; 
But  loud  on  the  morrow,  their  wail  and  their  cry  ! 
He  had  laugh'd  on  the  lass  with  his  bonny  black  eye, 
And  she  fled  to  the  forest  to  hear  a  love  tale, 
And  the  youth  it  was  told  by  was  Allen  a'Dale. 


FEMALE  PURITY. 

All  the  influences  which  women  enjoy  in  society  — 
their  right  to  the  exercise  of  that  maternal  care  which 
forms  the  first  and  most  indelible  species  of  education ; 
the  wholesome  restraint  which  they  possess  over  the 
passions  of  mankind  ;  their  power  of  protecting  us  when 
young,  and  cheering  us  when  old,  depend  so  entirely 
upon  their  personal  purity  and  the  charm  that  it  casts 
around  them,  that  to  insinuate  a  doubt  of  its  real  value 
is  wilfully  to  remove  the  broadest  corner-stone  on  which 
civil  society  rests,  with  all  its  benefits  and  all  its  com- 
forts. 

Dean  Swift  says  a  woman  may  knit  her  stockings 
but  not  her  brows  ;  she  may  darn  her  hose,  but  not  her 
eyes ;  curl  her  hair  but  not  her  lip  ;  she  may  thread  her 
needle  but  not  the  public  street. 


SCRAP    HOOK. 


GIVE  ME  THE  HAND. 


191 


Give  me  the  hand  that  is  warm,  kind  and  ready, 
Give  me  the  clasp  that  is  calm,  true,  and  steady. 
Give  me  the  hand  that  will  never  deceive  me, 
Give  me  the  grasp  that  I  aye  may  believe  thee. 

Soft  is  the  palm  of  the  delicate  woman  ! 

Hard  is  the  hand  of  the  rough  sturdy  yeoman  ! 
Soft  palm  or  hard  hand,  it  matters  not —  never  ! 

Give  me  the  grasp  that  is  friendly  forever. 

Give  me  the  hand  that  is  true  as  a  brother  ; 
Give  me  the  hand  that  has  harmed  not  another ; 
Give  me  the  hand  that  has  never  forsworn  it, 
Give  me  the  grasp  that  I  aye  may  adore  it. 

Lovely  the  palm  of  the  fair,  blue-veined  maiden ! 

Horny  the  hand  of  the  workman  o'erladen  ! 

Lovely  or  ugly,  it  matters  not  —  never  ! 

Give  me  the  grasp  that  is  friendly  forever. 

Give  me  the  grasp  that  is  honest  and  hearty, 
Free  as  the  breeze  and  unshaken  by  party  ; 
Let  friendship  give  me  the  grasp  that  becomes  her, 
Close  as  the  twine  of  the  vines  in  the  summer. 

Give  me  the  hand  that  is  true  as  a  brother  ; 

Give  me  the  hand  that  has  wronged  not  another ! 

Soft  palm  or  hard  hand,  it  matters  not  —  never ! 

Give  me  the  hand  that  is  friendly  for  ever. 


cS.w 


I92  JANE    ROWLEY  S 

ENDURE  HARDSHIPS. 

As  a  gladiator  trains  the  body  so  must  we  train  the 
mind  to  self-sacrifice,  "to  endure  all  things,"  to  meet  and 
overcome  difficulty  and  danger.  We  must  take  the  rough 
and  thorny  roads  as  well  as  the  smooth  and  pleasant ; 
and  portions  of  our  daily  duty  at  least  must  be  hard  and 
discouraging  ;  for  the  mind  cannot  be  kept  strong  in  per- 
petual sunshine  only,  and  the  most  dangerous  of  all 
states  is  that  of  constantly  recurring  pleasure,  ease  and 
prosperity.  Most  persons  will  find  difficulties  enough 
without  seeking  them  ;  let  them  not  repine,  but  take 
them  as  a  part  of  that  educational  discipline  necessary  to 
fit  the  mind  to  arrive  at  its  highest  good. 


How  near  to  each  other  lie  the  dignity  and  debase- 
ment of  the  human  understanding.  Love  instead  of  being 
a  sentiment  is  a  passion.  Charity,  ostentation.  Religion, 
fanaticism.  Eloquence,  the  desire  of  popular  applause, 
and  patriotism,  ambition.  Virtue  is  made  for  difficulties, 
and  grows  stronger  and  brighter  for  such  trials.  If  a 
thing  be  not  right,  do  it  not ;  if  it  be  not  true,  speak  it  not. 


The  true  motives  of  our  actions,  like  the  real  pipes 
of  an  organ,  are  usually  concealed.  But  the  gilded  and 
the  hollow  pretext  is  pompously  placed  in  the  front  for 
show. 


SCRAP    BOOK. 

MORALITIES. 

What  is  love  ?  Alas  ! 

'Tis  a  jest,  a  sigh, 
Full  of  sad  and  sunny  tears, 

I  know  not  why. 

What  is  war?  a  grave 
Where  the  soldiers  die, 

Some  for  gain,  for  glory,  some, 
They  know  not  why. 

What  is  hope?  It  is 

Life's  divinest  joy  ; 
WThen  all  others  vanish,  that 

At  last  is  by. 

What  is  joy  ?  Fawn 

That  doth  ever  fly 
Till  we  touch 't  them  at  change, 

And  says,  good  bye. 

What  is  life  ?  A  dream 

Full  of  visions  high, 
Where  we  seek  and  never  find 

Until  we  die. 

What  is  death  ?  Ah  !  me, 
Touch  me  not  so  nigh  ! 

Shall  I,  may  I,  can  I  tell? 
Alas  !  not  I. 


193 


194  jane  rowley's. 


THE  ASPEN. 

There  is  a  tradition  that  our  Saviour's  Cross  was  made  of  the  wood 
of  thi  s  tree,  and  that  its  leaves  have  thrilled  and  quivered  ever  since. 

Daylight  is  dying,  but  the  west 

Still  with  the  pomp  of  sunset  glows, 

And  crimson  clouds  on  mountain's  breast, 
And  tower,  and  tree,  its  radiance  thrown, 

While  one  by  one  in  Eastern  skies 

"  The  stars  that  usher  evening  rise." 

How  deep,  how  holy,  is  the  calm  ! 

Each  sound  seems  hush'd  by  magic  spell, 
As  if  sweet  peace,  her  honeyed  balm 

Blent  with  each  dew-drop  as  it  fell. 
Would  that  the  cares  that  man  pursue, 

A  pause  like  this  of  nature  knew  ; 
Yet  in  this  deep  tranquility, 

When  e'en  the  thistle's  down  is  still : 
Trembles  yon  towering  aspen  tree, 

Like  one  whose  by-gone  deeds  of  ill 
At  hush  of  night  before  him  sweep 

To  scare  his  dreams  and  "  murder  sleep." 

For  oft  in  highland  wilds,  'tis  said, 

But  truth  now  laughs  at  fancy's  lore, 
That  of  this  tree  the  cross  was  made 


SCRAP    BOOK  195 

Which  erst  the  Lord  of  glory  bore  ; 
And  of  that  deed  its  leaves  confess 
E'er  since  a  troubled  conscienceness. 

We  boast  of  clearer  light ;  but  say 

Hath  science,  in  his  lofty  pride, 
For  every  legend  swept  away 

Some  better,  holier  truth  supplied  ? 
What  hath  she  to  the  wanderer  given 

To  help  him  on  his  road  to  heaven  ? 

Say  who  has  gazed  upon  this  tree 

With  that  strange  legend  in  his  mind, 

But  inward  turn'd  his  eye  to  see 
If  answering  feeling  he  could  find 

A  trembling  for  that  guilt  that  gave 
His  Saviour  to  the  cross  and  grave  ? 

And  who  such  glance  did  inward  bend, 

But  scorned  the  apathy  and  pride, 
Which  made  him  slight  that  more  than  friend 

For  him  who  bled,  for  him  who  died  ; 
Nor  pray'd  his  callous  heart  might  prove 

What  'tis  to  tremble,  weep,  and  love? 

The  Spirit  of  the  Wood. 


Envy  is  always  fixed  on  something  superior,  and  like 
a  sore  eye,  is  offended  with  everything  bright. 


196  jane  rowley's 

NAPOLEON'S  GRAVE. 

It  is  confidently  reported  that  the  King  of  the  French  is  about  to 
send  a  ship  of  war  to  St.  Helena,  to  bring  the  remains  of  Napoleon  to 
France,  the  English  government  having  consented  to  that  measure. 

Oh  !  tear  him  not  from  the  lonely  spot  — 
From  the  shade  of  the  weeping  tree  ; 

Where  round  his  ashes  the  wild  wave  dashes 
In  the  waste  of  the  Southern  sea. 

Like  a  bow  unstrung  when  the  fight  was  done, 
A  bright  lamp  quenched  in  the  burning, 
Is  the  mouldering  bone  'neath  that  gray  stone, 
And  dust  to  its  dust  returning. 

In  the  grave  is  peace,  there  all  troubles  cease, 
There  is  peace  for  the  weary  head, 

From  the  griefs  of  earth,  from  the  curse  of  birth, 
They  invade  not  his  quiet  bed. 

On  the  stately  gloom  of  a  marble  tomb, 

With  trophies  of  war  on  it  laid, 
Add  to  his  glory,  or  blazen  his  story ! 

Let  him  rest  with  the  quiet  dead. 

Then  oh  !  touch  him  not,  the  poor  exile's  lot 
Was  checkered  by  glory  and  woes  ; 

Then  now  let  him  keep  his  home  on  the  deep, 
France  !  France  !    let  thy  warrior  repose. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  197 

WE  MEET  IN  CROWDS. 

BY    MRS.    C.    B.    WILSON. 

We  meet  in  crowds  !   who  used  to  meet  all  lonely, 
Where  the  soft  moonbeams  trembling  lit  the  shade, 

And  for  the  vows  we  interchanged,  now  only 
Are  the  cold'courtesies  of  fashion  paid  ! 

We  meet  in  crowds,  where  empty  mirth  is  lighting 
The  flashing  eye,  but  reaches  not  the  heart ; 

Where  pleasure  brims  the  cup  with  smiles  inviting, 
And  lures  her  victims  with  a  syren's  art. 

We  meet  in  crowds  !    Oh  how  unlike  the  meeting 
Our  bosom  knew  in  those  sweet  bygone  years  ; 

When  time's  swift  pinions  seemed  on  sunbeams  fleeting, 
And  youths'  light  footsteps  trod  alone  on  flowers. 

We  meet  in  crowds  !  — as  strangers —  cold  and  sadly, 
Who  ne'er  had  met,  nor  e'er  may  meet  again ; 

We  part!  —  and  in  each  bosom,  deeply,  madly, 
Rankles  the  wound  that  must  for  aye  remain. 


Stranger  !  for  Jesus'  sake  forbear 
To  dig  the  dust  enclosed  here  ; 
Blessed  be  he  that  spares  these  stones 
And  cursed  be  he  that  moves  my  bones. 

— Epitaph  of  Shakespeare. 


198  jane  rowley's 

THE  STRANGER'S  HEART. 

BY   BISHOP   HEBER. 

The  stranger's  heart,  oh  !  wound  it  not, 
A  yearning  anguish  is  its  lot ; 
In  the  green  shadow  of  thy  tree, 
The  stranger  hath  no  home  with  thee. 

Thou  thinkest  the  vine's  low  rustling  leaves, 
Glad  music  round  thy  household  eyes  ; 
To  him  that  voice  has  sorrow's  tone, 
The  stranger's  heart  is  with  his  own. 

Thou  thinkest  it  sweet,  when  friend  with  friend, 
Beneath  one  roof  in  prayer  may  blend  ; 
Then  does  the  stranger's  eye  grow  dim, 
Far,  far  are  those  that  pray'd  with  him. 

Thy  hearth,  thy  home,  thy  vintage  land, 
The  voices  of  thy  kindred  band, 
Oh  !  'midst  them  all  when  blessed  thou  art, 
Deal  gently  with  the  stranger's  heart ! 


Flattery. —  Princes  love  flatterers,  but  are  not  over- 
liberal  in  rewarding  them.  Some  women,  who  can  for- 
get a  thousand  kind  services,  because  they  are  fair,  and 
love  their  beauty  above  all  things,  never  forget  one's 
flattery,  but  still  even  love  them  best  who  deceive  them 
most. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  I99 

GENTLE  WORDS. 

A  young  rose  in  the  summer  time, 

Is  beautiful  to  me, 
And  glorious  the  many  stars 

That  glimmer  in  the  sea  ; 
But  gentle  words  and  loving  hearts, 

And  hands  that  clasp  my  own, 
Are  better  than  the  fairest  flowers 

Or  stars  that  ever  shone. 

The  sun  may  warm  the  grass  to  life, 

The  dew  the  drooping  flower, 
And  eyes  grow  bright  and  watch  the  light 

Of  Autumn's  opening  hour  ; 
But  words  that  breathe  of  tenderness, 

And  smiles  we  know  are  true, 
Are  warmer  than  the  summer  time, 

And  brighter  than  the  dew. 

It  is  not  much  the  world  can  give, 

With  all  its  subtle  art, 
And  gold  and  gems  are  not  the  things 

To  satisfy  the  heart. 
But  oh  !  if  those  that  cluster  round 

The  altar  and  the  hearth, 
Have  gentle  words  and  loving  smiles, 

How  beautiful  is  earth. 


200  jane  rowley's 

THE  TROOPER  TO  HIS   MARE. 

BY    CHARLES    G.    HALPINE    ("MILES    O'REILLY.") 

Sweet  girl,  that  has  borne  me  far  and  fast 

On  pawing  hoofs  that  were  never  loth, 
Our  galop  to-day  may  be  the  last 

For  thee,  or  for  me,  or  perhaps  for  both. 
As  I  tighten  your  girth  do  you  nothing  daunt? 

Do  you  catch  the  hint  of  our  forming  line? 
And  now  the  artillery  moves  to  the  front, 

Have  you  never  a  qualm,  Bay  Bess  of  mine? 
It  is  dainty  to  see  you  sidle  and  start 

As  you  move  to  the  battle's  cloudy  marge, 
And  to  feel  the  swell  of  your  wakening  heart 

When  our  sonorous  bugles  sound  a  charge  ; 
And  the  scream  of  the  shell  and  the  roar  of  the  drum 

You  feign  to  be  frightened  with  roguish  glance ; 
But  up  the  green  slopes  where  the  bullets  hum 

Coquettishly,  darling,  I've  known  you  dance. 

Your  skin  is  satin,  your  nostrils  red, 

Your  eyes  are  a  bird's  or  a  loving  girl's  ; 
And  from  delicate  fetlock  to  stately  head 

A  throbbing  vein  cordage  around  you  curls, 
O  joy  of  my  heart !   if  you  they  slay, 

For  triumph  or  rout,  I  little  care  ; 
For  there  isn't  in  all  the  wide  valley  to-day 

Such  a  dear  little  bridlewise  thoroughbred  mare. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  i  20: 


GOUGANA  BARRA. 

This  poem  was  written  about  the  year  1826,  by  I.  J.  Callanan,  a  native 
of  Cork.  He  died  at  Lisbon  in  1829,  and  his  grave  was  made,  not  by  the 
"  Calm  Avonbue,"  in  accordance  with  his  fervent  prayer,  but  by  the  bunks 
of  the  Tigris — far  away  from  the  "  deep  valley'd  Desmond."  A  volume 
of  his  poems  was  published  soon  after  his  death,  and  among  them  are 
many  of  merit,  fully  equal  to  the  fine  example  we  have  quoted. 

There  is  a  green  isle  in  lone  Gougana  Barra, 
W  here  allu  ot  song  rushes  forth  like  an  arrow ; 
In  deep  valley'd  Desmond  a  thousand  wild  fountains 
Come  down  to  that  lake,  from  their   home  in  the  moun- 
tains. 

There  grows  the  wild  ash,  and  a  time  stricken  willow 
Looks  chiding  down  on  the  mirth  of  the  billows  — 
As  like  some  gay  child  that  sad  monitor  scorning, 
It  lightly  laughs  back  to  the  laugh  of  the  morning. 

And  its  zone  of  dark  hills,  oh  !  to  see  them  all  brightning, 
When  the  tempest  flings  out  his  red  banner  of  lightning, 
And    the   waters    come   down,   'mid  the  thunders  deep 

rattle, 
Like  clans  from  their  hills  at  the  voice  of  the  battle  ;  •  \^  1 

And  brightly  the  fire-crested  billows  are  gleaming,  ^    Ju 
And  wildly  from  Mulloe  the  eagles  are  screaming,    p    ?fi 
Oh  !  where  is  the  dwelling,  in  valley  or  highland,  .jX 


So  sweet  for  a  bard  as  that  lone  little  Island  ! 

How  oft  when  the  summer  sun  rested  on  Clare,  *  t, 

And  lit  the  blue  headland  of  sullen  Ivere, 


202  JANE    ROWLEYS 

Have  I  sought  thee,  sweet  spot,  from  my  home  by  the  ocean, 
(And  thought  of  the  bards  who,  oft  gathering  together 
In  the  clefts  of  thy  rocks,  and  the  depth  of  thy  heather, 
Dwelt  far  from  the  Saxon's  dark  bondage  and  slaughter, 
As  they  raised  their  last  song  by  the  rush  of  thy  water,) 
And  trod  all  thy  wilds  with  a  minstrel's  devotion. 

High  sons  of  the  lyre  !  Oh  !  how  proud  was  the  feeling 
To  dream  while  alone,  through  that  solitude  stealing; 
Though  loftier  minstrels  green  Erin  can  number, 
I  alone  waked  the  strains  of  the  harp  from  its  slumber, 
And  gleaned    the  gray  legend  that  long  had  been  slum- 
bering 
Where  oblivion's  dull  mist  o'er  its  beauty  was  creeping, 
From  the  love  that  I  felt  for  my  country's  sad  story, 
When  to  love  her  was  shame,  to  revile  her  was  glory. 

Last  bard  of  the  free,  was  it  mine  to  inherit, 

The  fire  of  thy  harp  and  the  wing  of  thy  spirit ; 

With  the  wrongs  which,  like  thee,  to  my  own  land  have 

bound  me, 
Did  your  mantle  of  song  throw  its  radiance  around  me ; 
And  abroad  send  her  cry  o'er  the  sleep  of  each  valley, 
Yet,  yet  on  those  bold  cliffs  might  liberty  rally, 
But  rouse  thee,  vain  dreamer  !   no  fond  fancy  cherish, 
Thy  vision  of  freedom  in  bloodshed  must  perish. 

I  soon  shall  be  gone  —  though  my  name  may  be  spoken 
When  Erin  awakes  and  her  fetters  are  broken  ; 


SCRAP    BOOK.  203 

Some  minstrel  will  come  in  the  Summer  eve's  gleaming, 
When  freedom's  young  light  on  his  spirit  is  beaming, 
To  bend  o'er  my  grave  with  a  tear  of  emotion, 
Where  calm  Avonbue  seeks  the  kisses  of  ocean, 
And  a  wild  wreathe  to  plant,  from  the  bank  of  the  river, 
O'er  the  heart  and  the  harp  that  are  silent  forever. 


THE  BLUSH. 


See  how   the   blood   rises    in    the    cheek   of  yonder 
maiden ;  I  have  thought   that   blushes   are   the  pulse  of 
virtuous   feeling,  and  which   being  touched  by  the  un- 
washen  hand  of  lust  or  villany,  doth  beat  thus  highly 
yet  'tis  a  healthful  fever. 


Good  Advice. — Never  allow  misfortune  to  make 
you  selfish,  but  imitate  the  example  of  Fenelon,  who, 
when  his  library  was  on  fire,  exclaimed,  "God  be  praised 
that  it  is  not  the  dwelling  of  a  poor  man." 


Kind   words   are   amongst  the   brightest   flowers   of 
earth  ;  they  convert  the  humblest  home  into  a  paradise  ; 
therefore  use   them   around    the   fireside   circle.      True 
politeness  is  perfect  ease  and  freedom,  it  simply  consists 
in  treating  others  as  you  love  to  be  treated  yourself. 


Bigotry  murders  religion,  to  frighten  fools  with  her 
ghost. 


204  jane  rowley's 

WE  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN. 

BY    MISS    LANDON. 

We  might  have  been  !  these  are  but  common  words, 
And  yet  they  make  the  sum  of  life's  bewailing ; 

They  are  the  echo  of  those  finer  chords, 

Whose  music  life  deplores  when  unavailing. 
We  might  have  been. 

We  might  have  been  so  happy  !  says  the  child, 
Pent  in  the  weary  school-room  during  summer, 

When  the  green  rushes  'mid  the  marshes  wild, 
And  rosy  fruits  attend  the  radiant  roamer. 
We  might  have  been. 

Alas !  how  different  from  what  we  are 

Had  we  but  known  the  bitter  path  before  us  ; 
But  feelings,  hopes,  and  fancies  left  afar, 

What  in  the  wide,  bleak  world  can  e'er  restore  us? 
We  might  have  been. 

It  is  the  end  of  all  human  things, 

The  end  of  all  that  wait  on  mortal  seeking; 

The  weary  weight  upon  Hope's  flagging  wings, 
It  is  the  cry  of  the  worn  heart  while  breaking. 
We  might  have  been. 

A  cold  fatality  attends  on  love, 

Too  soon  or  else  too  late  the  heart  beat  quickens  ; 


SCRAP     BOOK.  2O5 

The  star  which  is  our  fate  springs  up  above, 

And  we  but  say  —  while  round  the  vapor  thickens, 
We  might  have  been. 

Thenceforth  how  much  of  the  full  heart  must  be 
A  sealed  book,  at  whose  contents  we  tremble  ; 

A  still  voice  utters,  'mid  our  misery, 

The  worst  to  hear  —  because  it  must  dissemble, 
"We  might  have  been. 

The  future  never  renders  to  the  past 

The  young  belief,  entrusted  to  its  keeping  ; 

Inscribe  one  sentence  —  life's  first  truth  and  last, 
On  the  pale  marble  where  our  dust  is  sleeping, 
We  might  have  been. 


Faith,  Hope  and  Charity,  or  Love,  are  three  such 
inseparables  that  they  have  been  likened  to  a  plant,  Faith 
being  the  root,  Hope  the  upward  rising  stem,  and  Love 
the  bright  and  glowing  fruit. 


As  a  person's  yes  and  no,  so  is  all  his  character.  A 
downright  yes  and  no  marks  the  firm  ;  a  quick  the  rapid  ; 
and  a  slow  one  a  cautious  or  timid  character. 


The  brightest  blaze  of  intelligence  is  of  less  value 
than  the  smartest  spark  of  charity.  Habit  a  second 
nature,  which  sometimes  supersedes  the  first. 


206  jane  rowley's 

A  PEEP  AT  THE  PUBLIC  MAN. 

BY   EARNEST  JONES. 

I've  met  the  young  man,  ardent  all, 

Starting  on  fire  at  glory's  call ; 

Have  heard  him,  too,  with  patriot  grace 

Refuse — yes  !  even  refuse  a  place  ! 

And,  yet  invincible  to  bribe, 

Launch  forth  his  noble  diatribe  ; 

Have  heard  him  coughed  and  jested  down, 

Alike  in  parliament  and  town  ; 

For  eveiy  one  was  held  uncouth, 

Who  smacked  of  honesty  and  truth, — 

Till  drawn  to  fashion's  shot-silk  banners, 

False  beauty's  smiles,  like  snares  were  spread, 

Cold  irony's  keen  arrows  sped  ; 

While  bright  before  his  eyes  were  set 

Gay  ribbon,  star,  and  coronet, 

All  —  all  the  hopes  of  joy  and  ease, 

At  that  one  price  alone  —  to  please  ! 

To  please?  —  to  dress  by  fashion's  glass, 

To  serve  the  few  and  spurn  the  mass, 

Cease  to  be  bold,  and  frank  and  hearty, 

Abandon  country  for  a  part)  ! 

While  dignities  were  let  for  hire, 

The  highest  bidder  still  the  buyer, 

Till  little  of  the  man  remained, 


SCRAP    BOOK.  207 

And  country  lost  what  party  gained. 

At  first  I  have  beheld  him  burn, 

Then  stand,  then  waver,  and  then  turn  ! 

How  few  could  brave,  how  few  could  shun 

The  many  bearing  on  the  one  ! 

Oh  !  who  the  tempting  could  withstand  ? 

Who  would  not  choose  the  safe  left  hand  ? 

Within  the  courtly  harbor  get 

And  anchor  with  a  coronet, 

Held  by  a  ribbon  from  afar, 

And  blazoned  —  Bondsman  !  by  a  star. 


Breath  —  Air  received  into  the  lungs  by  many  young 
men  of  fashion,  for  the  important  purpose  of  smoking 
cigars  and  whistling  a  tune. 

Charity  —  The  only  thing  that  we  can  give  away 
without  losing  it. 

Prodigals  live  as  if  they  had  but  a  short  time  to 
exist;  but  misers  as  if  they  were  never  to  die. 

Lawyer — A  learned  gentleman  who  rescues  your 
estate  from  your  enemy  and  keeps  it  himself. 

Rural  Felicity  —  Potatoes  and  turnips. 


He  who  combats  his  own  evil  fashions  and  desires 
enters  into  the  severest  battle  of  life  ;  and  he  who  com- 
bats successfully  obtains  the  greatest  victory. 


2oS  jane  rowley's 

INFLUENCES. 
Let  all  thine  influences,  e'en  the  least, 
Improve  thy  fellows,  and  take  heed  at  home 
How  eloquent  are  looks  !    From  them  we  draw 
Always  our  first  impressions — oft  our  last. 
The  child  had  marked  its  mother's  loving  smile 
Long  ere  it  learned  its  father's  lessons  grave  ; 
'Twas  from  its  mother's  fond  approving  look 
The  boy  became  a  painter. 

Finally : 

Of  all  thine  influences  take  most  heed 

Of  thine  unstudied  ones.     Full  many  a  man 

Can  with  the  lightning  flash,  that  cannot  shine 

With  the  mild  sun  ;  but  the  impetuous  storm 

Is  valueless  beside  the  silent  dew. 

So  the  good  deeds  of  a  pure-hearted  man 

Are  the  least  portion  of  his  influence, 

And  that  of  which  thyself  art  conscious  least, 

May  be  most  felt  by  others.     The  presence  e'en 

Of  a  good  man  is  no  mean  homily  — 

Of  a  bad  man,  a  curse.      Shine  like  a  star  ; 

And  glare  not  as  a  beacon.     The  white  slime 

Betrays  the  tortuous  track  of  the  bold  worm  ; 

The  ocean  long  retains  the  foamy  trace 

Of  the  dividing  keel,  and  shall  man  pass  — 

The  meanest  man  —  through  this  vibrating  world, 

Without  his  leaving,  where  he  once  had  been, 


SCRAP     BOOK.  209 

His  footprint,  deep  and  all  indelible ! 
In  thy  worn  track  across  the  heath  of  life 
Full  many  an  after  traveller  will  tread. 
See  that  thou  lead  him  not  away  from  God, 
But  prove  a  certain  pioneer  to  heaven. 

Though  the  prize  of  the  "  Golden  Violet "  was  not  awarded  to  the 
following  poem,  which  was  written  on  the  occasion  of  the  late  Fete  Cham- 
petre  in  the  Botanic  Gardens,  we  think  the  fair  judges  must  have  had 
gome  difficulty  in  finding  another  piece  of  equal  merit. 

THE  LOVES  OF  THE  PLANTS. 

The  gay  Daffodil  once,  an  amorous  blade, 

Stole  out  of  his  bed  in  the  dark, 
And  waking  his  man,  Ragged  Robin,  he  strayed 
To  breathe  forth  his  vows  to  a  Violet  maid 

That  lived  in  a  neighboring  park. 

A  spiteful  old  Nettle  Aunt,  frowned  on  their  love, 

But  Daffy,  who  smiled  at  her  power, 
A  Shepherd's  Purse  slipped  in  the  nurse's  Fox-glove, 

Then  up  Jacob's  Ladder  he  flew  to  his  love, 
And  into  the  young  virgin's  bower. 

The   Maiden's   Blush    Rose,  and  she  seem'd   all  dis- 
mayed, 

Attired  in  her  White  Lady-Smock, 
She  called  Mignonette,  but  the  sly  little  jade 
That  instant  was  hearing  a  sweet  serenade 

From  the  lips  of  a  tall  Hollvhock. 


2IO  JANE    ROWLEYS 

The  Pheasant's  Eye  —  always  a  mischievous  wight 

For  spying  out  something  not  good, 
Avowed   that   he   peeped   through   the   key-hole  that 

night, 
When  clearly  he  saw  by  a  glow-worm's  light 

Their  two  faces  under  a  Hood. 

This  tale  spread  about  through  the  busy  parterre, 

Miss  Columbine  turned  up  her  nose, 
The  proud  Lady  Lavender  said,  with  a  stare, 
That   her    friend,    Mary   Gold,    had    been    heard    to 
declare, 

"The  creature  had  toy'd  with  the  Rose." 

Each  Sage  looked  severe,  and  each  Coxcomb  looked 

gay, 

When  Daffy  to  make  her  mind  easy, 
Miss  Violet  married,  one  morning  in  May, 
And  sure  as  you  live,  before  next  Lady  Day 

She'll  bring  him  a  Michalmas  Daisy. 


A  good   education    is   a  better  safeguard  for  liberty 
than  a  standing  army  or  severe  laws. 


Friendship  is  a  silent  gentleman,  and  makes  no  parade  ; 
the  true  heart  dances  no  hornpipe  on  the  tongue. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  311 


STANZA. 


Barbara,  thou  art  gone  to  rest, 
Why  should  we  weep  o'er  thee  ? 

Light  the  turf  lies  on  thy  breast, 
Soft  the  winds  breathe  o'er  thee. 

Here  within  thy  native  clay, 

Calmly  thou  art  sleeping  ; 
Safer,  happier,  far  than  they 

Who  are  o'er  thee  weeping. 

Pleasant  is  thy  lowly  bed, 
Close  to  those  that  love  thee  ; 

Trees  'neath  which  thy  childhood  played, 
Gently  waving  o'er  thee. 

Hark  the  thrush,  how  sweet  his  lay  ! 
See  the  flowers  how  blooming  ! 
"  Weep  not  for  the  dead,"  they  say, 
Though  in  earth  consuming. 

"  Weep  not  for  her — she  is  gone 
Where  no  cares  can  move  her  ; 
All  her  earthly  labor  done, 
All  her  troubles  over. 

"  Weep  not  —  she  has  found  a  home, 
Where  no  sorrow  paineth  ; 
Sin,  nor  tears,  nor  terror  comes, 
Where  a  Saviour  reigneth." 


2i2  jane  rowley's. 

THE  EASTERN  WOMAN. 

BY    MRS.    MILNES. 

Behind  the  lattice,  closely  laced, 

With  filagree  of  choice  design, 
Behind  the  veil  whose  depth  is  traced 

By  many  a  complicated  line, — 
Behind  the  lofty  garden  wall, 

Where  stranger  face  can  ne'er  surprise 
That  inner  world,  her  all-in-all, 

The  Eastern  Woman  lives  and  dies. 

Husband  and  children,  round  her  draw 

The  narrow  circle  where  she  dwells  ; 
His  will  the  simple  perfect  law, 

That  scarce  with  joy  her  mind  molest. 
Their  birth  and  tutelage,  the  ground, 

And  meaning  of  her  life  on  earth, 
She  knows  not  elsewhere  could  be  found 

The  measure  of  a  woman's  worth. 

If  young  and  beautiful,  she  dwells 

An  idol  in  a  secret  shrine, 
Where  one  high  priest  alone  dispels 

The  solitude  of  charms  divine, 
And  in  his  happiness  she  lives, 

And  in  his  honor  has  her  own, 


SCKAP    BOOK..  213 

And  dreams  not  that  the  love  she  gives 
Can  be  too  much  for  him  alone. 

Within  the  gay  Kiosk  reclined, 

Above  the  scent  of  lemon  groves, 
Where  bubbling  fountains  woo  the  wind, 

And  birds  make  music  to  their  loves, 
She  lives  a  kind  of  fairy  life 

In  sisterhood  with  fruits  and  flowers, 
Unconscious  of  the  outward  strife 

That  wear  the  palpitating  hours. 

And  when  maturer  duties, 

In  pleasure's  and  in  passion's  place, 
Her  duteous  loyalty  supplies 

The  presence  of  departed  grace  ; 
So  hopes  she  by  untiring  faith 

To  win  the  bliss,  to  share  with  him 
Those  glories  of  celestial  youth 

That  time  can  never  taint  or  dim. 

Thus  in  the  ever-closed  harem, 

As  in  the  open  Western  world, 
Sheds  womanhood  her  starry  gleam 

Over  our  beings'  busy  foam  ; 
Through  latitudes  of  varying  faith 

Thus  trace  we  still  her  mission  sure, 
To  lighten  life,  to  sweeten  death, 

And  all  for  others  to  endure. 


214  jane  rowley's 

WORTH  KNOWING. 

A  man  never  forgives  the  woman  who  has  deliber- 
ately exerted  the  winning  powers  of  her  sex  to  deceive 
him.  Wound  his  tenderness,  arouse  his  jealousy,  over- 
whelm him  with  reproaches,  and  he  may  overlook  and 
excuse  all.  But  make  him  the  dupe  of  any  design,  let 
him  feel  that  you  have  coldly  spread  out  your  fascinations 
for  a  selfish  purpose,  and  he  is  lost  to  you  forever ;  even 
if  his  heart  could  return  to  its  allegiance  it  would  scarcely 
be  worth  having. 


CHARACTER  IS  ESSENTIAL  TO  HAPPINESS. 

Without  a  good  character  happiness  is  never  known  ; 
all  that  exalts,  ennobles,  embelishes,  and  dignifies 
humanity,  is  blended  in  the  beauty  and  the  glory  of  a 
truly  genuine  character.  All  the  treasures  of  ten  thou- 
sand worlds  will  not  compare  in  value  with  one  pure 
heart  for  the  production  of  all  that  is  satisfying  and 
blessed.  They  will  not  purchase  peace,  nor  joy,  nor 
sacred  rest,  nor  the  sweet  tranquility  of  an  unsullied 
conscience,  nor  one  single  moment's  real  bliss.  They 
can  never  be  exchanged  for  those  golden  gloried  virtues 
that  blossom  all  over  a  good  character  like  the  blossoms 
on  a  thick  bed  of  roses,  and  which  are  as  rich  in  the 
sweet  incense  that  the  heart  loves  most  as  the  flowers  are 
in  refreshing  fragrance.     The  youth  who  places  a  proper 


SCRAP    BOOK.  215 

estimate  upon  a  good  character  has  learned  a  lesson  that 
is  more  valuable  to  him  than  any  thing  else  possibly  can 
be.  He  has  learned  the  source  of  his  purest  joys.  But 
the  happiness  and  blessedness  of  a  good  character  are 
not  confined  to  the  sunny  chambers  of  its  possessor. 
Character  is  catching ;  if  one  has  good  character,  he 
gives  something  of  its  goodness  to  all  with  whom  he 
associates.  If  his  heart  is  radiant  with  the  light  of  vir- 
tue, that  light  gets  out  and  shines  in  upon  the  heart  of 
others. 


The  spirit  of  politeness  consists  in  giving  such  atten- 
tion to  our  manners  and  language  that  those  around^  us 
are  left  content  with  us  and  themselves. 


SONG. 


They  saw  that  I  was  fair  and  bright, 

And  bore  me  far  away  ; 
Within  the  Sultan's  halls  of  light 

A  glittering  wretch  to  stay. 
They  bore  me  o'er  the  dreary  sea 

Where  the  dark  wild  billows  foam, 
Nor  heard  the  sigh  I  heav'd  for  thee 

My  own,  my  childhood's  home. 

They  deck  my  arms  with  jewels  rare, 
That  glitter  in  the  sun, 


2[6 


JANE    ROWLEYS 

And  braid  with  pearls  my  long  black  hair, 

I  sigh  when  all  is  done. 
I'd  give  them  all  for  one  bright  hour, 

Free  and  unwatcbed  to  roam, 
I'd  give  them  all  for  one  sweet  flower, 

From  thee,  my  childhood's  home. 

They  bring  my  low  toned  harp,  and  bid 

My  voice  the  notes  prolong, 
And  oft  my  soul  is  harshly  chid, 

When  tears  succeed  to  song. 
Alas  !  my  lips  can  sing  no  more, 

When  o'er  my  spirit  come 
The  strains  I  heard  in  thee  of  yore, 

My  own,  my  childhood's  home. 


"MOLL"  PITCHER  AT  MONMOUTH. 

So  you  ask  me  for  a  story  of  the  battle  days  of  yore, 
Ere  our  country's  flag  triumphant  waved  aloft  from  shore 

to  shore. 
You    have    read   of  Concord's  struggle,  of  the  fight  at 

Bunker  Hill, 
How  our  brave   men  went  to  battle,  bloody  graves  too 

soon  to  fill ; 
You    have    read    the    thrilling  story  of  the  ride  of  Paul 

Revere, 


SCRAP    BOOK. 


2I7 


When    all    hearts    were    filled  with    anguish,  and  war's 

gloomy  cloud  was  near  ; 
Rut  there  is  another  story,  braver  one  no  man  can  tell, — 
How  "Moll"    Pitcher  fought  at  Monmouth,  when  her 

husband  bleeding  fell ; 
And  in  all  the  tales  of  daring  on  the  storied  page  enrolled, 
You  can  find  no  nobler  record  than  "  Moll "  Pitcher's  life 

has  told. 

She  was  one  of  many  women,  who,  in  Freedom's  dark- 
est day, 

Left   the  joys  of  home  behind  them,  dared  the  battle- 
field's  array, 

Trembled  not  when  war's  dread  thunder  pierced  the  still 
and  pulseless  air, 

Trembled  not  when  faint  hearts  listened  to  the  music  of 
despair ; 

Whispered  comfort  to  the  dying:,  closed  the  pale  lips  of 
the  dead, 

While    the    angry  bullets    hissed  their   solemn    requiem 
overhead. 

From  far  Erin's  isle  of  sorrow   to    our   shores  she  came 

a  bride, 
With  her  husband,  strong  in  hope  and  manly  vigor  by 

her  side  ; 
'Twas  a  tyrant  hand  that  forced  them  from  their  dear  old 

island  home, 


2i8  jane   Rowley's 

Far  from  kin,  and  graves  of  kindred,  in  our  foreign  land 
to  roam. 

Well  they  labored,  ne'er  forgetting  all  their  sorrows  of 

the  past ; 
And  when  war's  dread  clarion  sounded,  borne  upon  the 

northern  blast, 
Side  by  side  they  went  to  battle,  to  engage  the  English 

foe, 
Who  had  made  their  land  an  outcast  among  nations  long 

ago. 

Long  and  loud  the  battle  thundered  on  the  slopes  of 
Monmouth  town, 

And  a  hail  of  leaden  fury  mowed  brave  friend  and  foe- 
man  down. 

To  and  fro  the  long  ranks  surging,  like  the  billows  of  the 
main, 

With  the  wreck  of  human  valor,  strewed  the  hillside  and 
the  plain. 

There  beside  his  smoking  cannon,  gallant  Pitcher  plied 

him  well, 
Till    the    deadly    bullet    pierced    him,  —  at    his    post    he 

bravely  fell. 
In  that  waving  line  of  battle  there  was  none  his  place  to 

fill, 


SCRAP   BOOK.  219 

And   the   gun   that   shrieked   death's   message,    like   its 
master's  heart,  was  still. 

u  Bear  it  back,"  the  chieftain  shouted,  "  we  have  none  to 

man  it  now." 
There  was  sadness  in  his  bidding,  there  was  gloom  upon 

his  brow ; 
'Twas  an  hour  when  brave  hearts  trembled  for   the  out- 
come of  the  fight, 
And  when  many  men  looked  sadly  for  the  coming  of  the 

night. 
In  that  hour  of  grief  and  sorrow,  in  the  battle's  fiercest 

flame, 
To  the  front,  with  eyes  enkindled,  then  "Moll"  Pitcher 

swiftly  came  ; 
She  had  seen  her  husband  perish  in  the  thickest  of  the 

fight, 
And  the  lips  that  whispered  love,  she  sees  now  cold  and 

ghastly  white. 

Does  she  falter  as  she  sees  him  with  his  pale  face  lying 

low? 
Does  she  falter  as  she  gazes  on  his  life  blood's  ruddy 

glow  ? 
'Tis  a  time  for  woman's  weeping — has  she  not  a  woman's 

heart  ? 
Ah,  brave  heroine,  she  forces  back  the  tears  that  fain 

would  start ! 


220  jane  rowley's 

Pausing  not  for  idle  weeping — slowly  turned  she  from 

her  dead, — 
"I    will    take   my  husband's  place,  sir,  and  avenge  his 

death,"  she  said. 

All  day  long  the  sound  of  battle  thundered  on  the  Sab- 
bath air, — 

Shouts  of  living,  groans  of  dying,  death  and  sorrow 
evervwhere ; 

All  day  long  beside  the  cannon  brave  "  Moll "  Pitcher 
wrought  her  part, 

While  the  shot  that  killed  her  husband  deeply  sank  with- 
in her  heart. 

Well  did  she  avenge  her  dearest  on  the  bloody  field  that 

day; 
And  when  Night  climbed  up  the  heavens,  treading  stars 

along  her  way, 
When  the  sound  of  strife  was   ended   and   the   day's  red 

work  was  done, 
Then,  and  not  till  then,  "  Moll  "  Pitcher  turned  to  mourn 

her  dearest  one. 


O,  my  children,  as  you  gather  in  your  pleasant  homes  to- 
night, 

And  enjoy  the  many  blessings  that  now  make  your  lives 
so  bright, 

Treasure  well  your  country's  freedom — fair  Columbia's 
noblest  boast  — 


SCRAP    BOOK.  221 

Guard  it  well — no  one  can  tell  you  all  the  precious  blood 

it  cost ; 
And  pray  God  that  he  may  give  us  blessed  peace  from 

shore  to  shore. 
And  that  in  our  land  the  cannon's  voice  shall  tell  of  war 
no  more. 

Paul  M.  Russell. 
Abington,  Mass. 


HENRY  WARD   BEECHER,  PREACHER,  PAT- 
RIOT,  PHILANTHROPIST. 

Like  a  fountain  that  upsprings, 

In  a  desert  wild  and  drear, 
Like  a  clarion  note  that  rings 

Through  the  fastnesses  of  fear  ; 

Like  a  fortress  on  a  rock, 

Set  to  guard  a  wide  domain, 
Sheltering  the  affrighted  flock 

When  Destruction  sweeps  the  plain  ; 

Like  a  storm  whose  grandeur  wild 
Takes  its  way  at  heaven's  behest ; 

Like  a  Samson  undefiled, 
To  Untruth  a  fatal  guest : 

Thus,  with  thoughts  that  flame  and  soar, 
Thus,  with  spirit-weaponed  hand, 


222  jane  rowley's 

For  dear  peace  and  righteous  war, 
Stood  our  preacher  in  the  land. 

Gracious  nature,  graceful  art, 

Wove  for  him  their  blended  crown  ; 

He  could  bless  with  brimming  heart, 
He  could  call  God's  thunder  down. 

Bitter  woes  of  humankind  ! 

Sin  and  sorrow,  grief  and  wrong, 
Was  he  to  your  beckoning  blind  ? 

Did  he  slight  you  in  his  song? 

And  the  mystic  things  of  God 
That  we  dimly  apprehend, 

Did  he  tread  them  roughly  shod, 
Shatter  beauties  without  end  ? 

I  remember  well  the  thrill 
Multitudes  were  glad  to  share 

When  the  solemn  aisles  did  fill 
With  the  music  of  his  prayer  ; 

With  his  sermon  wisely  planned  ; 

Reasoned  with  a  master's  might : 
Faith's  illuminating:  hand 

Touched  his  sentences  with  light. 

That  we  had  him  is  a  boon 

That  commands  a  song  of  praise  ; 


SCRAP    BOOK.  223 

That  we  lose  him  oversoon 
Is  a  grief  for  all  our  days. 

Having  ?  Losing  ?   All  those  years 

Pregnant  with  celestial  fire  ; 
Can  we  quench  them  with  our  tears 

Like  a  warrior's  funeral  pyre  ? 

No,  those  treasures  dearly  bought 

Are  beyond  the  reach  of  fate  ; 
They  are  builded  in  our  thought, 

They  arte  welded  in  our  State. 

On  the  solemn  judgment  mount, 
He,  methinks,  may  fearless  stand, 

For  the  final  dread  account, 
With  his  record  in  his  hand. 

A  great  army  would  attest 

The  true  succor  that  he  gave 
To  the  poor  God  loveth  best, 

To  the  woman,  to  the  slave  ! 

He  once  more  may  fitly  pray 

If  a  prayer  can  sound  in  heaven  : 
"  Be  God's  help  to  me  this  day, 
As  the  help  that  I  have  given." 

Julia  Ward  Howe. 


224  JANK    ROWLEY'S 

THE  IVY. 

A  welcome  to  the  ivy,  and  a  blessing  on  its  leaves, 
That  spread  their  cheerful  branches  round  when  barren 

nature  grieves. 
A  welcome  to  the  friendly  plant  that  will  not  go  astray, 
Though  crumbling  walls  are  sinking  into  ruin  and  decay. 
The  relics  of  antiquity  —  the  halls  of  feudal  power, 
Behold  their  faithful  monitor,  on  turret,  wall  and  tower ; 
And  when  unto  her  lover  waved  the  scarf  of  lady  fair, 
The  roving  edge  of  time  instead,  behold  the  ivy  there  ! 

A  welcome  to  the  ivy,  for  it  speaks  of  friendship  true, 
That  lingers  to  the  last  around  the  fabric  where  it  grew, 
Though  tower  and  turret  moulder,  yet  the   ivy  still  is 

green, 
And  mirrors  to  the  present  those  events  that  once  have 

been. 
We  liken  it  in  summer,  when  the  dew  its  tendrils  deck, 
To  the  child  that  hung  in  confidence  around  his  mother's 

neck, 
But   when    in    frosty    winter    time,    it    shelters  from  the 

blast, 
It's  like  indeed,   a  woman,   who  proves  constant  to  the 

last. 

The  soul,  too,  hath  its  ivy  in  the  shadows  of  the  past 
That   round   the   broken   heart  will  cling  in  freshness  to 
the  last. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  225 


The  memory  of  by-gone  days,  when  love  and  hope  were 

young, 
Is  but  the  stem  that  o'er  some  tomb  its  ivy  leaves  had 

flung. 
Our  eyes  that  once  beamed  bright  on  us,  in  after  years 

we  dwell, 
And  phantom  voices  speak  again,  in  tones  we  loved  full 

well ; 
But  still  those  happy  dreams  with  which  we  would  not 

wish  to  part, 
Are    proofs   that   mental    ivy   grows  around  the  ruined 

heart. 

E«      L*      R» 


WHAT  IS  HOPE? 

What  is  Hope  ?  —  'tis  a  sweet  feeling 
An  op'ning  flower,  forever  revealing, 

Some  visionary  hue. 
It  bears  the  wandering  thoughts  on  high- 
It  stems  the  tear  —  the  rising  sigh  — 
And  points  where  joys  immortal  lie, 

Hid  from  the  scoffer's  view. 

What  is  Hope?  —  a  peaceful  stream, 
Refreshing  life's  e'er  wasting  stream, 
And  fertilizing  love  ; 


226  jane  rowley's 

A  planet  'mid  the  murkiest  night, 
A  smile,  when  adverse  storms  affright 
Away  the  glad  hours  of  young  delight, 
Sent  from  above. 

What  is  Hope  ?  —  a  verdant  spot, 
Where  all  our  sorrows  are  forgot, 

A  meteor  'mid  the  gloom  ; 
A  spring  upon  the  sultry  plain, 
A  life-skiff  on  the  boistrous  main, — 
An  April's  breath,  a  summer's  rain, 

A  blossom  born  to  bloom. 

What  is  Hope?  —  A  bliss  that  springs 
Spontaneously,  when  coldness  wrings 

The  ever  flexile  soul. 
A  sacred  boon  —  the  gift  of  heaven, 
To  all  earth's  suffering  offspring  given 
By  time,  nor  scene,  nor  change  e'er  riven, 

As  vears  their  courses  roll. 


The  Fearful  Man. —  He  who  dreads  giving  light 
to  the  people,  is  like  a  man  who  builds  a  house  without 
windows,  for  fear  of  lightning.  You  cannot  fathom  your 
mind  ;  there  is  a  well  of  thought  there  which  has  no 
bottom.  The  more  you  draw  from  it,  the  more  clear 
and  plentiful  it  will  be. 


SCRAP     BOOK. 

WHAT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN. 

'Twas  in  an  old  oak  chamber 

And  some  laughing  girls  were  there, 
Who  braided  orange  blossoms 

In  a  blushing  playmate's  hair. 
A  snowy  veil  they  o'er  her  cast, 

And  led  her  to  the  door  ; 
She  left  that  old  oak  chamber  — 

Her  girlhood's  time  was  o'er  ; 
And  oh  !  she  looked  so  beautiful 

Amidst  her  hopes  and  fears, 
With  her  smiles  that  burst  like  sunshine 

Through  many  a  shining  tear  ; 
Methought  she  like  a  lily  seemed, 

Which  floats  on  some  bright  stream. 
How  blest  was  I !  that  bride  was  mine  — 

But  only  in  a  dream. 

It  might  have  been. 

As  she  left  her  mother's  home, 

The  village  chimes  were  heard, 
Mingling  with  the  scent  of  flowers, 

And  voice  of  many  a  bird. 
The  young  came  forth  from  every  porch 

To  see  her  as  she  passed  ; 
The  old  to  bless  her  gentle  face, 

And  look,  perhaps,  their  last. 


227 


2  2$  JANE    ROWLEY'S 

Then  round  the  altar's  rails  we  stood  ; 

And  then  she  vowed,  through  life, 
To  cling  in  weal,  to  cling  in  woe  ; 

The  girl  became  a  wife  ! 
Oh  !  day  for  which  the  heart  long  yearned, 

Burst  in  that  vision's  gleam  — 
My  first,  my  only  love  was  mine  — 

Was  mine  but  in  a  dream. 

It  might  have  been. 
The  eye  from  dreary  wastes  delights 

To  gaze  on  spots  that  're  green  ; 
So  through  my  troubled  life  love  I 

To  thought  bring  back  that  dream. 
Its  bare  remembrance  softens  yet 

The  draught  in  sorrow's  glass  — 
Though  I  can  never  dare  to  hope 

That  dream  will  come  to  pass. 
My  falsehood  wrung  her  loving  heart 

And  faded  her  fair  brow  ; 
But  has  she  not  been  well  avenged 

By  that  which  parts  us  now  ; 
I  live  to  feel  I  love  her  still, 

Though  cold  to  all  I  seem  ; 
Had  I  been  true  how  well  I  know 

What  would  have  been  —  no  dream. 
It  might  have  been. 

J?  Storehouse. 


V 


SCRAP    BOOK.  229 

THE  OAK  TREE. 

In  childhood's  bright  morn,  ere  I  quitted  my  home, 
I  planted  an  acorn  in  sport  at  the  door  ; 
Then  for  many  a  year  'twas  my  fortune  to  roam, 
And  revisit  the  scenes  of  my  childhood  no  more. 

When  next  I  returned  to  my  dear  native  cot, 
Youth  advancing  to  manhood  was  fearless  and  gay, 
And  a  vigorous  sapling  that  rose  on  the  spot, 
Told  alone  of  the  years  that  had  glided  away. 

Many  more  rolled  along  amid  life's  changing  scenes 
Ere  the  home  of  my  childhood  again  I  could  see. 
Then  a  wide-spreading  oak  overshadowed  the  green, 
And  the  gloom  that  it  spread  was  congenial  to  me. 

On  the  tender  young  plant  I  had  carved  a  loved  name, 
When  I  last  stood  beside  it  unwilling  to  part, 
The  name  of  the  false  one  remains  on  the  stem, 
And  I  feel  it,  alas  !  written  still  on  my  heart 
When  in  youthful  devotion  the  letters  I  drew 
The  friend  of  my  bosom  stood  smiling  the  while  ; 
"Twas  he  stole  my  bride,  and  the  scene,  when  I  view, 
Like  a  spectre  it  haunts  me  —  that  treacherous  smile. 
But  'tis  past,  and  beneath  the  old  oak  is  my  seat, 
While  the  shrill  winds  of  autumn  the  sere  branches  wave, 
I  gaze  on  the  leaves  as  they  fall  at  my  feet, 
And  feel  that  ere  long  they  will  fall  on  my  grave. 


230  jane  rowley's 

THE  GRAVE  OF  BURNS. 

Is  yonder  little  snowy  dome 

The  sacred  shrine,  the  silent  tomb, 

Where  thinking  strangers  love  to  come, 

Where  genius  mourns, 
The  last  —  the  solitary  home 

Of  thee,  poor  Burns  ? 

Yes  —  yes,  that  dome  adorns  thy  bed, 
'Twas  given  by  those  who  scarcely  bread 
When  living  gave  thee  —  not  a  shed 

To  hide  thy  wants  ; 
But  now  would  o'er  thy  head 

Build  monuments. 

The  little  spot  is  thine.     And  who 
Shall  turn  thee  from  thy  tenure  now? 
Thy  lease  is  long,  thy  landlord  true. 

Thy  troubles  cease. 
The  great  can  have  no  more  than  thou 

From  heaven's  lease. 

Swan  of  the  Nithe  !  thy  wing  was  light, 
Thy  plume  was  whitest  of  the  white, 
But  wild  and  wayward  was  thy  flight 

From  wave  to  wave. 
One  course  was  thine,  wayward  and  bright, 

E'en  to  thy  grave. 


SCRAP    BOOK  231 

Swan  of  the  Nithe  !     If  aught  in  thee 
Sullied  thy  brightness,  none  should  see 
The  blemish.     Men  should  view,  like  me, 

Thy  life's  short  dream. 
And  let  thy  faults,  like  swan's  feet,  be 

Sunk  in  the  stream. 


TSAR  OLEG. 


Tsar  Oleg  was  riding  through  holy  Kieff 

With  the  bright  flashing  trooping  spear  and  shield, 

And  his  loving  people  bent  low  where  he  passed, 
As  a  wind  sweeps  over  the  full-ripe  field. 

When  with  staff  upheld  in  the  swaying  throng, 

The  royal  Soothsayer  stood  in  the  way. 
And  he  cried,  "  Beware  !  Death  shall  smite  thee,  O  king, 

From  the  milk-white  steed  thou  bestridest  to-day  !  " 

Tsar  Oleg  he  pondered  and  mused  awhile, 
And  anon  he  alit  from  his  gallant  steed  — 

"An'  if  this  must  be  I  will  ride  thee  no  more, 
Go,  lead  him,  ye  grooms,  to  some  sunny  mead." 

When  a  herald  came  out  of  the  Grecian  bounds, 
And  for  tribute  refused  blew  a  challenge  of  war, 

Tsar  Oleg  he  leaped  on  a  berry-brown  steed, 
And  led  his  hosts  to  the  southward  alar. 


^^F^y    v    S 


232  jane  rowley's 

Till  he  girdled  the  Bosphorus-gazing  walls, 
And  made  the  Czesars  bow  down  to  fate, 

And  departing,  he  said,  "  Be  forever  a  mark  !  " 
And  he  fixed  his  shield  on  the  city's  gate. 

And  in  triumph  to  holy  KiefThe  returned, 
With  hostages,  plunder  and  martial  spoils, 

And   lie  said   in   his  heart,   "  We  have  fought,  we  have 
won, 
We  will  rest  now  in  glory  from  warlike  toils." 

When  he  sudden  remembered  the  warning  voice 

That  smote  his  ears  ere  he  rode  to  war, 
And  he  bade  the  Soothsayer  before  him  stand  — 
"  How  twinkles,  O  prophet,  my  fateful  star? 

"  How  prances  the  fateful  and  baleful  steed? 

Will  he  neigh,  will  he  leap  to  the  trumpet  still?" 
"  Oh,  my  liege,  nevermore;  for  these  seven  years'  wind 

Hath  his  bones  all  bleached  upon  yon  green  hill." 

Up  rose  Tsar  Oleg,  and  called  for  his  horse, 

And  he  followed  his  seer  to  that  south-sloping  lea  — 

He  went  gyved  and  guarded  that  Soothsayer  gray, 
And  yet  with  a  steady,  proud  step  walked  he. 

And  the  king  saw  the  bones  of  his  milk-white  steed, 
Where  the  tops  of  the  deep  grass  rose  and  fell, 

And  the  silver-shod  hoofs  and  the  bridle  of  gold, 
And  the  golden  stirrups,  he  knew  them  well. 


KC'\         A 


^ 


SCRAP    BOOK.  233 

And  he  set  his  foot  on  the  hollow  skull, — 

While  his  nobles  stood  round  him  with  bated  breath  — 
And  he  asked  with  scorning,  "  Thou  prophet  of  ills, 

Comes  hurt  from  a  carcass,  or  death  from  death?" 

And  he  spake  to  his  guards,  "  Let  the  false  prophet  die  !  " 
•*  The  fates  know  me  royal,"  he  thought  in  his  pride, 

When  lo  !  from  the  skull  sprang  an  adder  fang'd, 
And  stilled  with  its  venom  his  heart's  high  tide. 

J.  J.  Kennealy. 


SUCCESS  IN  LIFE. 

Without  unremitting  labor,  success  in  life,  whatever 
our  occupation,  is  impossible.  A  fortune  is  not  made 
without  toil,  and  money  earned  comes  to  few.  The 
habitual  loiterer  never  brings  anything  to  pass.  The 
young  men  you  see  lounging  around,  waiting  for  the 
weather  to  change  before  they  go  to  work,  break  down 
before  they  start.  Ability  and  willingness  to  labor  are 
the  two  great  conditions  to  success.  It  is  useless  to  work 
an  electric  machine  in  a  vacuum  ;  but  the  air  may  be 
full  of  electricity,  and  still  you  can  draw  no  spark  until 
you  turn  the  machine.  The  beautiful  statue  may  exist  in 
the  ai'tist's  brain,  and  it  may  also  be  said  in  a  certain 
sense  to  exist  in  the  marble  block  that  stands  before  him  ; 
but  he  must  bring  forth  his  brains  and  his  hands  to  bear 


234  jane  rowley's 

upon  the  marble,  and  work  hard  and  long  in  order  to 
produce  any  practical  result.  Success  also  depends  in  a 
good  measure  upon  the  man's  promptness  to  take  advan- 
tage of  the  rise  of  the  tide.  A  great  deal  of  what  we 
call  luck  is  nothing  more  nor  less  than  this.  It  is  the 
man  who  keeps  his  eyes  open  and  his  hands  out  of  his 
pockets  that  succeeds.  "  I  missed  my  chance,"  exclaims 
the  disappointed  man  when  he  sees  another,  more  alert, 
catch  eagerly  at  the  opportunity.  But  something  more 
than  alertness  is  needed  ;  we  must  know  how  to  avail 
ourselves  of  the  emergency.  An  elastic  temperament, 
which  never  seems  to  recognize  the  fact  of  defeat,  or  for- 
gets it  at  once,  and  begins  the  work  over  again,  is  very 
likely  to  ensure  success.  Many  a  merchant  loses  one 
fortune  to  build  up  another  and  a  larger  one.  Many  an 
inventor  fails  in  his  first  efforts  and  is  at  last  rewarded 
with  triumph.  Some  of  the  most  popular  novelists 
wrote  very  poor  stuff  in  the  beginning.  They  were 
learning  their  trade,  and  could  not  be  expected  to  turn 
out  first-class  work  until  their  apprenticeship  was  over. 
One  great  secret  of  success  is  not  to  be  discouraged,  but 
always  be  ready  to  try  again. 


Pure  benevolence  is  a  flower  of  beauty  rare,  of  fra- 
grance sweet.  It  seldom  blooms  on  earth,  whose  climate 
is  too  cold.  In  heaven,  its  native  soil,  it  grows  lux- 
uriantly. 


SCRAP   BOOK.  235 

WRITTEN  BY  THE  SEASIDE  AT  FULL  MOON 

—TIME,  MIDNIGHT. 

Not  a  cloud  in  the  sky,  not  a  voice  on  the  breeze  ; 
Not  a  wave  on  the  far-spreading  breast  of  the  seas  ; 
Each  edge  of  the  moon,  like  the  sun  in  his  might, 
Is  bound  with  a  belt  of  the  fullest  orbed  light. 

While  the  vessels  that  sit  on  the  face  of  the  deep, 
Seem  fixed  to  the  waters  in  motionless  sleep, 
'Tis  the  full  harvest-moon,  what  a  heavenly  night ! 
All  nature  reposes  in  silvery  light. 

Though  the  world  were  my  own  with  its  valleys  and  hillsr 

And  I  ruled  into  silence  its  myriads  of  rills, 

What  more  could  I  feel  of  sweet  solitude  here  — 

What  more  of  enjoyment,  though  lord  of  a  sphere  ? 

While  man  is  asleep,  and  the  pure  azure  skies 

Have  opened  their  million  of  diamond-like  eyes, 

And  yon  bright  little  star  that  the  moon  claims  her  own, 

Is  abroad  with  its  mistress,  as  star  never  shone  ! 

All  is  love,  all  is  beauty,  all  hush'd  into  rest  — 

O  God  !  that  man's  heart  should  be  ever  oppressed  — 

Hark  !  a  voice  by  the  shore  and  a  splash  on  the  sea, 

'Tis  some  fleeting  bark  that  now  skims  o'er  the  sea, 

The  music  keeps  time  with  the  beings  that  row, 

And  the  song,  like  a  spirit,  comes  mellow  and  low  ; 

'Tis  enough  !  I'll  to  bed  and  reflect  on  the  scene, 

And  my  heart  shall  improve  from  a  sight  so  serene. 


27,6  jane  rovvley's 

FAULT  FINDING. 

There  is  a  disposition  in  some  to  view  unfavorably 
everything  that  tails  under  their  notice.  They  seek  to 
gain  confidence  by  always  differing  from  others  in  judg- 
ment, and  to  depreciate  what  they  allow  to  be  worthy  in 
itself  by  hinting  at  some  mistake  or  imperfection  in  the 
performance.  You  are  too  lofty  or  too  low  in  your  man- 
ners ;  you  are  frugal,  or  too  profuse  in  yo*Ur  expendi- 
ture ;  you  are  too  taciturn,  or  too  free  in  your  speech  ; 
and  so  of  the  rest.  Now,  guard  against  this  tendency. 
Nothing  will  conduce  more  to  your  uncomfortableness 
than  living  in  the  neighborhood  of  ill  nature,  and  being 
familiar  with  discontent.  The  disposition  grows  with 
indulgence,  and  is  low  and  base  in  itself;  and  if  any 
should  be  ready  to  pride  themselves  on  skill  and  facility 
in  this  science,  let  them  remember  that  the  acquisition  is 
cheap  and  easy,  a  child  can  deface  and  destroy.  Dull- 
ness and  stupidity,  which  seldom  lack  inclination  or 
means,  can  cavil  and  find  fault,  and  everything  can 
furnish  ignorance,  prejudice  and  envy,  with  a  handle  of 
reproach. 

Love  one  human  being  purely  and  well,  and  you  will 
love  all.  The  heart  in  this  heaven  is  like  the  wandering 
sun.  It  sees  nothing  from  the  dew-drop  to  the  ocean, 
but  a  mirror  which  it  warms  and  fills. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  237 

SYMPATHY. 

From  a  richly-stored  green  house,  despised  and  neglected, 
Sad,  injured,  and  broken,  a  lily  was  thrown  ; 

Once  loved  by  its  owner,  now  coldly  rejected  ; 
Once  tended  with  care,  now  abandoned  in  scorn. 

From    the    cold,    piercing  wind,  from   the   tempest  un- 
shielded, 

The  sorrowing  plant  soon  had  withered  and  died. 
When  this  heart  full  of  sympathy,  tenderly  yielded 

The  kindly  affection  its  owner  denied. 

Though   the   hand    that   should    foster    had    injured  the 
blossom, 

And  left  the  lone  plant  to  a  merciless  doom, 
Yet  the  dew-drop  of  pity,  infused  on  its  bosom, 

Revived  it  again  to  a  flourishing  bloom. 

And  now  o'er  the  land  that  with  tenderness  cherished, 
The  plant  that  had  suffered  so  cruel  a  part, 

The  buds  gaily  opened,  that  well-nigh  had  perished, 
Dropped  the  nectar  of  gratitude  warm  from  the  heart. 

Ah  !  so  with  myself,  when  once,  sad,  broken-hearted, 
The  laboring  sigh  all  my  sorrow  betrayed  ; 

Such  the  sweet  consolation  by  friendship  imparted, 
To  heal  the  deep  wound  that  misfortune  had  made. 


238  jane  rowley's 

And  such  be  forever  the  loved  recollection, 
Of  balm  kindly  poured  in  this  bosom  of  woe  ; 

And  such  be  the  tribute  of  grateful  affection 

While  life's  purple  stream  in  my  bosom  shall  flow. 


THE  STAR  OF  MY  HOME. 

I  remember  the  days  when  my  spirit  would  turn, 

From  the  fairest  of  scenes,  and  the  sweetest  of  sono-. 
When  the  hearth  of  the  stranger  seemed  coldly  to  burn, 

And  the  moments  of  pleasure  for  me  were  too  lono-  • 
For  one  name  and  one  form  shone  in  glory  and  lio-ht, 

And  lured  back  from  all  that  might  tempt  me  to  roam. 
The  festal  was  joyous,  but  was  not  so  bright 

As  the  smile  of  my  mother,  the  Star  of  my  Home  ! 

I  remember  the  days  when  the  tear  fill'd  my  eve, 

And    the    heaving   sigh    wildly    disturbed    my   youn^ 
breast ; 

But  the  hand  of  that  loved  one  the  lashes  would  dry, 
And  her  soothing  voice  lull  my  chafed  bosom  to  rest. 

The  sharpest  of  pain  and  the  saddest  of  woes, 

The  darkest,  the  deepest  of  shadows  might  come : 

Yet  each  wound  had  its  balm,  while  my  soul  could  re- 
pose 

On  the  breast  of  my  mother,  the  Star  of  my  Home  ! 


SCRAP    BOOK.  239 

But  now  let  me  roam  the  wide  world  as  I  will, 

There's  no  form  to  arise  as  a  magnet  for  me  ! 
I  can  rest  amid  strangers  and  laugh  with  the  gay  — 

Content  with  the  pathway  where'er  it  may  be  ; 
Let  sorrow  or  pain  fling  their  gloomiest  cloud, 

There's  no  haven  to  shelter,  no  beacon  to  save  ; 
For  the  rays  that  e'er  led  me  are  quenched  by  the  shroud, 

And  the  Star  of  my  Home  has  gone  down  in  the  grave. 

Eliza  Cook. 


QUARRELS. 

One  of  the  most  easy,  the  most  common,  most  perfectly 
foolish  things  in  the  world,  is  to  quarrel — no  matter  with 
whom  —  man,  woman  or  child  ;  or  on  what  pretences, 
provocations,  on  occasion  whatsoever.  There  is  no  kind 
of  necessity  in  it,  and  no  species  or  degree  of  benefit 
to  be  gained  by  it,  and  yet,  strange  as  the  fact  may  be, 
theologians,  politicians,  lawyers,  doctors,  and  princes 
quarrel ;  nations,  tribes,  corporations,  men,  women,  chil- 
dren, dogs  and  cats,  quarrel  about  all  manner  of  things, 
and  on  all  manner  of  occasions.  If  there  is  anything  in 
the  world  will  make  a  man  feel  bad,  except  pinching  his 
finger  in  the  crack  of  a  door,  it  is  unquestionably  a 
quarrel.  No  man  ever  fails  to  think  less  of  himself  after, 
than  he  did  before  one  ;  it  degrades  him  in  his  own  eyes, 
and  in  the  eyes  of  others,  and,  what  is  worse,  blunts  his 


240  JANE    ROWLEY  S 

sensibility  to  disgrace  on  the  one  hand,  and  increases  the 
power  of  passionate  irritability  on  the  other.  The 
truth  is,  the  more  quietly  and  peaceably  we  get  on,  the 
better  for  ourselves,  the  better  for  our  neighbors.  In 
nine  cases  out  often,  the  wisest  course  is,  if  a  man  cheats 
you,  quit  dealing  with  him  ;  if  he  is  abusive,  quit  his 
company  ;  if  he  slanders  you,  take  care  to  live  so  that 
nobody  will  believe  him.  No  matter  who  he  is,  or  how 
he  misuses  you,  the  wisest  way  is  to  let  him  alone  ;  for 
there  is  nothing  better  than  this  cool,  calm,  quiet  way  of 
dealing  with  the  wrongs  we  meet  with. 


SAINT  PATRICK. 

Be  Eire  blessed  at  evening  hours, 
When  sunset  gilds  her  smiling  bowers, 
When  whirlwinds  howl !  my  blessing  be, 
My  generous  Eirin,  still  on  thee  ; 
With  thee  be  every  blessing  given 
From  skies  benign  by  favoring  heaven  ; 
Be  blessings  on  thy  battle  blades, 
And  blessings  on  thy  bashful  maids  ; 
Blest  be  the  fisher  tribes  that  roam 
Thy  darkening  surge  and  whitening  foam  ; 
Oh  !  blessed  be  thy  stormy  ni^ht, 
And  blessed,  too,  thy  morning  bright ; 
And  blessed  be  thy  waving  corn, 
And  every  babe  in  Eirin  born  ! 


SCRAP    BOOK. 

IN  A  RAILWAY  CAR. 

A  crowd  of  men  in  a  railway  car 

Sat  talking  of  many  a  thing  ; 
Of  the  price  of  goods,  and  the  chance  of  war, 

The  weather  and  tardy  spring. 
They  stopped  at  a  roadside  very  soon, 

For  a  maiden,  young  and  fair, 
With  a  face  as  fresh  as  a  rose  in  June, 

And  a  wealth  of  bright  brown  hair. 

Just  for  a  moment  all  were  still, 

Then  a  youth  said,  with  a  jeer, 
"  She'd  join  our  set  if  she  had  her  will, 

Did  you  see  her  glance  up  here? 
I'll  just  step  forward  and  speak  to  her, 

And  humor  her  little  plan  ;  " 
And  he  smiled  the  weak  and  silly  smile 

Of  a  vain  and  thoughtless  man. 


241 


"oA 


"  Sit  still ! "  said  one  in  a  corner  chair  ; 
"  If  you  have  a  sister,  sir, 
Respect  the  sisters  of  other  men, 

Though  but  for  the  sake  of  her. 
How  would  you  feel  if  she  stood  there, 

And  I,  with  a  scornful  jeer, 
Should  ask  —  forgetting  my  own  bold  stare  — 

'  Did  you  see  her  glance  up  here  ? '  " 


242  JANE    ROWLEYS. 

"  That's  so  !  "  said  another  angrily  ; 
"  And  it  might  have  been  my  Grace, 
For  she  visits  right  often  a  family 

That  lives  pretty  nigh  this  place. 
And  the  man  that  spoke  of  my  daughter  so 

Couldn't  ride  in  a  car  with  me  ; 
And  so  young  sir  you  had  better  go 

Where  fathers  are  scarcer  !     See  ? " 

"  'Tis  always  my  plan,"  said  a  gray-haired  man, 
"  To  do  as  a  good  man  should  ; 
Think  every  woman,  both  old  and  young, 

And  pretty  and  plain,  are  good  ; 
For  I  have  a  mother  and  sister  at  home, 

I  have  a  daughter  and  wife, 
And  I'm  bound  to  say  that  every  day, 

They're  the  comfort  and  joy  of  life. 

"  And  plenty  of  men  have  wives  like  mine, 

And  daughters  as  fair  and  sweet, 
And  gray-haired  mothers,  as  good  and  true, 

And  sisters  as  kind  and  neat ; 
And  I  say  that  he  who  will  fling  a  sneer 

Or  a  doubt  at  a  girl — why,  then, 
He's  neither  worthy  of  woman's  love, 

Nor  worthy  to  sit  with  men." 


SCRAP    BOOK.  243 

So  the  youth  went  out  with  a  very  red  face  ; 
And  nobody  missed  him  a  moment's  space ; 
And  perhaps  he  has  learnt,  if  ever  he  can. 
That  to  sneer  at  a  woman  is  shame  to  a  man. 


WENDELL  PHILLIPS. 

Along  the  streets  one  day  with  that  swift  tread 
He  walked  a  living  king —  then,  "  He  is  dead," 
The  whisper  flew  from  lip  to  lip,  while  still 
Sounding  within  our  ears  the  echoing  thrill 
Of  his  magician's  voice,  we  seemed  to  hear, 
In  notes  of  melody  ring  near  and  clear. 

So  near,  so  clear,  men  cried,  "  It  cannot  be  ! 

It  was  but  yesterday  he  spoke  to  me  ; 

But  yesterday  we  saw  him  move  along, 

His  head  above  the  crowd,  swift-paced  and  strong ; 

But  yesterday  his  plan  and  purpose  sped 

It  cannot  be  to-day  that  he  is  dead." 

A  moment  thus,  half-dazed,  men  met  and  spoke, 

When  first  the  sudden  news  upon  them  broke  : 

A  moment  more,  with  sad  acceptance  turned 

To  face  the  bitter  truth  that  they  had  spurned. 

Friends   said   through   tears,    "  How   empty   seems  the 

town," 
And  warring  critics  laid  their  weapons  down. 


244  jane  rowley's. 

He  had  his  faults,  they  said,  but  they  were  faults 
Of  head  and  not  of  heart  —  his  sharp  assaults 
Flung  seeming  heedless  from  his  quivering  bow, 
And  heedless  striking  either  friend  or  foe, 
Were  launched  with  eyes  that  saw  not  foe  or  friend, 
But  only  shining  far,  some  goal  or  end. 

That  compassed  once,  should  bring  God's  saving  grace 
To  purge  and  purify  the  human  race. 
The  measure  that  he  meted  out  he  took, 
And  blow  for  blow  received  without  a  look, 
Without  a  sign  of  conscious  hurt  or  hate, 
To  stir  the  tranquil  calmness  of  his  state. 

Born  on  the  heights  and  in  the  purple  bred, 
He  chose  to  walk  the  lowly  ways  instead, 
That  he  might  lift  the  wretched  and  defend 
The  rights  of  those  who  languished  for  a  friend. 
So  many  years  he  spent  in  listening 
To  these  sad  cries  of  wrong  and  suffering1. 

It  was  not  strange,  perhaps,  he  thought  the  right 
Could  never  live  upon  the  easeful  height, 
Nor  strange  indeed  that  slow  suspicion  grew 
Against  the  class  whose  tyrannies  he  knew. 
But  bitter  and  unsparing  as  his  speech, 
He  meant  alone  the  evil  deed  to  reach. 


SCRAP   BOOK.  245 

No  hate  of  persons  winged  his  fiery  shaft. 

He  had  no  hatred  but  for  cruel  craft, 

And  selfish  measurements,  where  human  Might 

Bore  down  upon  the  immemorial  Right, 

E'en  while  he  dealt  his  bitterest  blows  at  power, 

No  bitterness  that  high  heart  could  devour. 

How  at  the  last  this  great  heart  conquered  all, 

We  know  who  watched  above  his  sacred  pall  — 

One  day,  a  living  king,  he  faced  a  crowd 

Of  critic  foes  ;  over  the  dead  king  bowed 

A  throng  of  friends  who  yesterday  were  those 

Who  thought  themselves,  and  whom  the  world  thought, 

foes. 

Nora  Perry. 


GLADSTONE. 

Near  that  dim  threshold  where  death  lurks  in  wait 
To  clutch  the  crown  of  seasons  long  delayed, 
By  weakling's  base  desertion  undismayed 

He  stands,  majestic,  by  the  load  of  state 

Unbowed,  undaunted,  equal  still  to  Fate. 

Not  rank,  nor  wealth,  nor  prejudice  arrayed, 
Nor  hate  nor  hope,  may  make  his  soul  afraid, 

Whose  fruit  of  aim  is  certain,  ripe  though  late. 

When  the  brave  falter  and  the  strong  grow  cold, 


246  jane  rowley'& 

With  hand  unshaken  by  all-palsying  age 
He  writes  the  word  of  Justice  on  the  page, 
Where  wrong  for  generations  hath  been  scrolled. 
Oh  !  nation-shaking  tongue,  oh  !  voice  of  gold, 
And  heart  that  years  nor  seasons  may  make  old  ! 

Land  of  pure  women  and  heroic  men, 

Whose  sons  through  age-long  darkness  bravely  grope 
To  pluck  the  flower  of  long  too  hopeless  hope ; 
Dwellers  in  lonely  huts  by  bog  and  fen, 
Still  fierce  to  drive  the  robbers  from  their  den, 
Still  aiming  straight  at  your  immortal  scope, 
With  old  and  newer  foes  still  stanch  to  cope  — 
When  dawns  now  near  your  day  of  triumph,  then, 
When  hymns  are  chanted  and  when  thanks  are  said 
To  all  who  loved  you  in  the  darker  days  — 
When  the  full  glory  of  a  people's  praise 
To  light  through  lingering  and  tempest  led, 
Shines  like  the  front  of  heaven  among  the  dead. 
Wreathe  then,  the  immortal  wreath  for  that  white   head. 


The  two  most  precious  things  on  this  side  the  grave 
are  our  reputation  and  our  life.  But  it  is  to  be  lamented 
that  the  most  contemptible  whisper  may  deprive  us  of 
the  one,  and  the  weakest  weapon  of  the  other.  A  wise 
man,  therefore,  will  be  more  anxious  to  deserve  a  fair 
name  than  to  possess  it,  and  this  will  teach  him  so  to 
live  as  not  to  be  afraid  to  die. 


SCRAP   BOOK.  247 

MUSIC  AND  SONG. 

We've  relics,  curious  and  rare, 

Brought  home  from  famous  nooks, 

And  music  sweet,  and  pictures  fair, 
And  heaps  of  fine  old  books. 

The  power  of  music  over  mankind  can  hardly  be  es- 
timated, and  there  are  very  few  people  in  the  world  who 
are  not  influenced  by  it.  Among  all  nations,  and  in 
every  clime  its  power  is  acknowledged,  and  all  from 
the  monarch  on  his  throne,  to  the  poorest  peasant  in  his 
realm,  pay  allegiance  to  it. 

From  the  earliest  times  we  read  of  its  power,  and  who, 
in  moments  of  discouragement  and  sadness,  or,  perhaps, 
when  the  spirit  has  been  stirred  by  passion  deep  and 
strong,  has  not  felt  the  sweet,  quieting  effects  of  music, 
and  understood  why  it  was  that  Saul,  the  ancient  King 
of  Israel,  sought  for  the  fair  shepherd  boy  to  charm 
away  the  evil  spirit  with  his  harp. 

Thousands  of  weary  slaves  have  beguiled  their  toil  by 
singing  their  wild,  strange  melodies,  and  legions  of  tired 
soldiers  have  marched  steadily  forward,  mile  after  mile, 
almost  unconscious  of  fatigue,  as  they  kept  time  to  the 
inspiring  music  of  their  regimental  bands. 

We  all  know  the  power  of  eloquence,  but  the  power  of  a 
beautiful  voice  in  song  is  even  greater,  touching  the  inner 
recesses  of  our  hearts,  and  awakening  the  deepest  emotions 


248  jane  rowley's 

of  our  souls.  It  is  related  that  once  upon  a  time,  a  noted 
singer  was  passing  through  the  market-place  of  the  city 
of  Lyons,  when  a  woman  and  child  asked  alms  of  him. 
Pausing  to  assist  her,  he  discovered  that  he  had  no 
money  with  him  ;  but,  wishing  to  help  her,  taking  off 
his  hat  he  sang  his  best,  hastily  giving  the  money 
collected  to  the  beggar. 

"  The  singer  pleased,  passed  on,  and  softly  thought, 
Men  will  not  know  by  whom  this  deed  was  wrought ; 
But  when,  at  night,  he  came  upon  the  stage, 
Cheer  after  cheer  went  up  from  that  wide  throng, 
And  flowers  rained  on  him.     Naught  could  assuage 
The  tumult  of  the  welcome,  save  the  song 
That  for  the  beggar  he  had  sung  that  day, 
While  standing  in  the  city's  busy  way." 


Oh,  conscience  !  conscience  !  man's  most  faithful  friend  ! 
Him  canst  thou  comfort,  ease,  relieve,  defend  ; 
But  if  he  will  thy  friendly  checks  forego, 
Thou  art,  oh,  woe  for  me  !  his  deadliest  foe. 

Crabbe. 


To  thine  own  self  be  true, 

And  it  must  follow,  as  the  night  the  day, 

Thou  canst  not  then  be  false  to  any  man. 

Shakespeare. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  249 

DEATH'S  FINAL  CONQUEST. 

(Among  the  poetic  legacies  that  will  "  never  grow  old, 
nor  change,  nor  pass  away,"  is  the  noble  dirge  of  Shirley 
in  his  "  Contention  of  Ajax  and  Ulysses."  Doubtless  it 
was  by  the  fall,  if  not  by  the  death,  of  Charles  I.,  that  the 
mind  of  the  royalist  poet  was  solemnized  to  the  creation 
of  the  imperishable  stanzas.  Oliver  Cromwell  is  said, 
on  the  recital  of  them,  to  have  been  seized  with  great 
terror  and  agitation  of  mind.) 

The  glories  of  our  mortal  state 

Are  shadows,  not  substantial  things  ; 
There  is  no  armor  against  fate  ; 


*** 


Death  lays  his  icy  hands  on  kings. 
Scepter  and  crown 


Must  tumble  down, 
And  in  the  dust  be  even  made 
With  the  poor  crooked  scythe  and  spade. 

Some  men  with  swords  may  reap  the  field, 
And  plant  fresh  laurels  where  they  kill ; 
But  their  strong  nerves  at  last  must  yield  ; 
They  tame  but  one  another  still. 
Early  or  late, 
They  stoop  to  fate, 
And  must  give  up  their  murmuring  breath, 
When  they,  pale  captives,  creep  to  death. 


25°  jane   rowley's 

The  garlands  wither  on  your  brow, 

Then  boast  no  more  your  mighty  deeds  ; 
Upon  death's  purple  altar  now, 

See  where  the  victor-victim  bleeds  ; 
Your  heads  must  come 
To  the  cold  tomb. 
Only  the  actions  of  the  just 
Smell  sweet,  and  blossom  in  the  dust. 


'Tis  an  excellent  world  that  we  live  in  — 
To  lend,  to  spend,  or  to  give  in  ; 
But  to  borrow  or  beg,  or  get  a  man's  own, 
'Tis  just  the  worst  world  that  ever  was  known  ! 


CHILDREN. 


The  smallest  are  nearest  to  God,  as  the  smallest 
planets  are  nearest  the  sun.  Were  I  only  for  a  time 
almighty  and  powerful,  I  would  create  a  little  world 
especially  for  myself,  and  suspend  it  under  the  mildest 
sun  —  a  world  where  I  would  have  nothing  but  lovely 
little  childred,  and  these  little  things  I  would  never 
suffer  to  grow  up,  but  only  to  play  eternally.  If  a 
seraph  were  worthy  of  heaven,  or  his  golden  pinions 
drooped,  I  woidd  send  him  to  dwell  for  a  while  in  my 
happy  infant  world.  And  no  angel,  so  long  as  he  saw 
their  innocence,  could  lose  his  own. 

Jean  Paul. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  25X 

BIRTH,    PARENTAGE,   AND   EDUCATION    OF 

A  BOOK. 

The  following  eighteen  occupations  are  engaged  in 
the  production  of  a  single  book  :  The  author,  the  rag-mer- 
chant, the  paper-maker,  the  stationer,  the  quill -dresser, 
the  ink-maker,  the  type-founder,  the  press-maker,  the 
roller-maker,  the  chase-maker,  the  pressman,  the  com- 
positor, the  reader,  the  folder,  the  gatherer,  the  stitcher, 
the  twine-merchant,  the  thread-merchant. 


FROM  THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE. 

BY   THOMAS    CAMPBELL. 

; '  At  summer  eve,  when  Heaven's  ethereal  bow 
Spans  with  high  arch  the  glittering  hills  below, 
Why  to  yon  mountain  turns  the  musing  eye, 
Whose  sunbright  summit  mingles  with  the  sky  ? 
Why  do  those  cliffs  of  shadowy  tint  appear 
More  sweet  than  all  the  landscape  smiling  near  ? 
'Tis  distance  lends  enchantment  to  the  view, 
And  robes  the  mountain  in  its  azure  hue. 
Thus  with  delight  we  linger  to  survey 
The  promised  joys  of  life's  unmeasured  way  ; 
Thus  from  afar,  each  dim  discover'd  scene 
More  pleasing  seems  than  all  the  past  hath  been ; 
And  every  form  that  fancy  can  repair 
From  dark  oblivion,  glows  divinely  there." 


253  jane  rowley's 

THE  SPIRIT  GUIDE. 

BY  AUGUSTUS  LARNED. 

Far  in  the  realms  of  Arctic  night, 
Where  flames  the  weird  auroral  light, 
And  icebergs  loom  on  every  hand, 
Enchantress  of  that  lonelv  land, 
The  patient  dark-skinned  Esquimaux, 
A  little  grave  shapes  in  the  snow. 
And  o'er  the  ice-plain,  bleak  and  wild, 
The  murmuring  mother  bears  her  child, 
In  furry  garment,  softly  rolled, 
Who  ne'er  again  shall  feel  the  cold, 
And  lays  him  on  the  icy  breast 
To  take  his  last  and  final  rest. 
And  there  beside  the  little  mound 
The  father  slays  his  fleetest  hound, 
A  creature  of  unerring  skill, 
Of  keenest  scent,  of  docile  will, 
To  trace  for  haunts  of  seal  and  bear, 
That  stock  the  little  ice-hut  there. 
He  lays  the  faithful  beast  and  brave, 
Low  down  beside  his  baby's  grave, 
And  says  :   "  The  little  one  will  stray, 
Through  night  and  darkness  far  away, 
His  tender  feet  have  never  trod, 
And  cannot  find  the  path  of  God. 


,1    .1/ 

*      oA  A 


r-  „>     n  *> 


SCRAP   BOOK.  253 

"  Now  guide  him  safe  from  night  and  cold, 
Far  out  to  realms  of  purest  gold, 
Where  flowery  meads  and  crystal  streams 
Are  smiling  to  the  sun's  glad  beams, 
Where  rise  abodes  of  joy  and  mirth, 
And  feasting  fills  the  happy  earth," 

Consoled  the  parents  homeward  wend, 
And  leave  the  baby  to  the  friend, 
Who  for  protection  and  defence, 
Has  proved  a  gentle  providence, 
Sure  that  the  dog,  so  true  and  wise, 
Will  find  the  gates  of  Paradise. 


The  way  to  be  happy  is  to  take  the  days  of  happiness 
as  God  gives  them  to  us  every  day  of  our  lives. 

The  boy  must  learn  to  be  happy  while  learning  his 
trade  ;  the  merchant  while  he  is  making  his  fortune.  If 
he  fails  to  learn  this  art  he  will  be  sure  to  miss  his  enjoy- 
ment when  he  gains  what  he  has  sighed  for. 


Ingratitude  closes  the  door  to  Heaven's  gifts,  acknowl- 
edgment of  them  keeps  it  open.  If  you  desire  the 
treasures  of  Paradise  to  be  opened  to  you,  be  always 
grateful  to  your  sovereign  benefactor. 

S.  Leonard,  of  Port  Maurice. 


254  jane  rowley's. 

HOME,  SWEET  HOME. 

BY  JOHN  HOWARD  PAYNE. 

Mid  pleasures  and  palaces,  though  we  may  roam, 
Be  it  ever  so  humble  there's  no  place  like  home ! 
A  charm  from  the  skies  seems  to  hallow  us  here, 
Which,  seek  through  the  world  is  ne'er  met  with  else- 
where. 

Home  !  home,  sweet  home  ! 

There's  no  place  like  home  ! 
An  exile  from  home,  splendor  dazzles  in  vain  ! 
O,  give  me  my  lowly  thatched  cottage  again ! 
The  birds  singing  gaily  that  come  to  my  call ; 
O,  give  me  sweet  peace  of  mind,  dearer  than  all ! 

Home  !  home,  sweet  home  ! 

There's  no  place  like  home  ! 


Let  us  try  to  be  happy  !  some  shades  of  regret 
Are  sure  to  hang  round,  which  we  cannot  forget ; 
There  are  times  when  the  lightest  of  spirits  must  bow, 
And  sunniest  face  wear  a  cloud  on  its  brow. 
We  must  never  bid  feelings  the  purest  and  blest 
Lie  blunted  and  cold  in  our  bosom  at  rest ; 
But  the  deeper  our  own  griefs  the  greater  the  need 
To  try  to  be  happy,  lest  other  hearts  bleed. 

Oh,  what  a  tangled  web  we  weave 

When  first  we  practice  to  deceive. — Scott. 


SCRAP    COOK.  255 

A  RECEIPT  FOR  COOKING  HUSBANDS. 

A  Baltimore  lady  has  written  a  receipt  for  "  cooking 
husbands,  so  as  to  make  them  good  and  tender."  It  is  as 
follows  :  —  A  good  many  husbands  are  utterly  spoiled  by 
management.  Some  women  go  about  it  as  if  their  hus- 
bands were  bladders,  and  blow  them  up  ;  others  keep 
them  constantly  in  hot  water ;  others  let  them  freeze  by 
their  carelessness  and  indifference.  Some  keep  them  in 
a  stew  by  irritating  wayward  words,  others  roast  them. 
Some  keep  them  in  pickle  all  their  lives.  It  cannot  be 
supposed  that  any  husband  will  be  tender  and  good 
managed  in  this  way,  but  they  are  really  delicious  when 
properly  treated. 

In  selecting  your  husband  you  should  not  be  guided 
by  their  silvery  appearance,  as  in  buying  mackerel,  nor 
by  the  golden  tints,  as  if  you  wanted  salmon.  Be  sure 
to  select  him  yourself,  as  tastes  differ.  Do  not  go  to 
market  for  him,  as  the  best  are  always  brought  to  your 
door.  It  is  far  better  to  have  none  unless  you  will 
patiently  learn  how  to  cook  him.  A  preserving  kettle 
of  finest  porcelain  is  best,  if  you  have  nothing  but  an 
earthenware  pipkin,  it  will  do  with  care.  See  that  the 
linen  in  which  you  wrap  him  is  nicely  washed  and 
mended,  with  the  required  number  of  buttons  and  strings 
sewed  on.  Tie  him  in  the  kettle  by  a  strong  silk  cord 
called  comfort,  as  the  one  called  duty  is  apt  to  be  weak. 


256  jane  rowley's 

They  are  apt  to  fly  out  of  the  kettle  and  be  crusty  and 
burned  on  the  edges,  since  like  crabs  and  lobsters  you 
have  to  cook  them  while  alive.  Make  a  clear,  steady  fire 
out  of  love,  cheerfulness  and  neatness.  Set  him  as  near 
this  as  it  seems  to  agree  with  him.  If  he  sputters  and 
frizzes,  do  not  be  anxious  ;  some  husbands  do  this  till  they 
are  quite  done.  Add  a  little  sugar  in  the  form  of  what 
confectioners  call  kisses,  but  no  vinegar  or  pepper  on  any 
account.  A  little  spice  improves  them,  but  must  be  used 
with  judgment.  Do  not  stick  sharp  instruments  into  him 
to  see  if  he  is  becoming  tender.  Stir  him  gently,  watch 
the  while,  lest  he  be  too  flat  and  close  to  the  kettle  and 
so  become  useless.  You  cannot  fail  to  know  when  he  is 
done.  If  thus  treated  you  will  find  him  very  digestible, 
agreeing  nicely  with  you  and  the  children.  And  lie  will 
keep  as  long  as  you  want  unless  you  become  careless  and 
set  him  in  too  cold  a  place. —  Tit  Bits. 


Man  that  man  would  be 
Must  rule  the  Empire  of  himself,  in  it 
Must  be  supreme,  establish  his  throne  on 
Vanquished  will,  quelling  the  anarchy 
Of  hopes  and  fears. —  Shelly. 


You  may  break,  you  may  shatter  the  vase  if  you  will, 
But  the  scent  of  the  rose  will  hang  round  it  still. — Moore. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  257 

OH  !    THE  SHAMROCK. 

THOMAS    MOORE. 

Through  Erin's  Isle, 

To  sport  awhile, 
As  Love  and  Valor  wandered, 

With  Wit  the  sprite, 

Whose  quiver  bright 
A  thousand  arrows  squandered  ; 

Where'er  they  pass, 

A  triple  grass 
Shoots  up  with  dewdrops  streaming, 

As  softly  green 

As  Emerald,  seen 
Through  purest  crystal  gleaming  ! 
Oh  !  the  Shamrock,  the  green  immortal  Shamrock. 

Chosen  leaf 

Of  Bard  and  Chief 
Old  Erin's  native  Shamrock  ! 

Says  Valor,  "  See 
The  sprig  for  me," 
"  Those  leafy  gems  of  morning  ;  " 
Says  Love,  uNo,  no, 
For  me  they  grow, 
For  me  they  grow, 
My  fragrant  path  adorning !  " 


258  JANE    ROWLEY'S 

But  Wit  perceives, 

The  triple  leaves, 
And  cries,  "  Oh  !  do  not  sever" 
And  cries,  "  O  !  do  not  sever" 

A  type  that  blends 

Three  god-like  friends, 
"  Love,  Valor,  Wit,  forever  !  " 
Oh  !  the  Shamrock,  the  green  immortal  Shamrock, 

Chosen  leaf 

Of  Bard  and  Chief, 
Old  Erin's  native  Shamrock. 

So  firmly  fond 

May  last  the  bond 
They  wove  that  morn  together, 

And  ne'er  may  fall 

One  drop  of  gall 
On  Wit's  celestial  feather  ! 

May  love  as  shoot 

His  flower  and  fruit, 
Of  thorny  falsehood  weed  'em  ! 

May  Valor  ne'er 

His  standard  rear 
Against  the  cause  of  Freedom  ! 
Oh  '  the  Shamrock,  the  green  immortal  Shamrock, 

Chosen  leaf, 

Of  Bard  and  Chief, 
Old  Erin's  native  Shamrock  ! 


SCRAP    BOOK.  259 

THE  IRISHMAN. 

_B¥  J.    GRAHAM. 

The  savage  loves  his  native  shore, 

Though  rude  the  soil  and  chill  the  air, 
Then  why  shouldn't  Erin's  sons  adore 

An  Isle  which  nature  formed  so  fair? 
What  flood  reflects  a  shore  so  sweet 

As  Shannon  great  or  pastoral  Ban  : 
Or  who  a  friend  or  foe  can  meet 

So  generous  as  an  Irishman? 
His  hand  is  rash,  his  heart  is  warm, 

But  principle  is  still  his  guide, 
None  more  regrets  a  deed  of  harm, 

And  none  forgives  with  nobler  pride  ; 
He  may  be  duped,  but  won't  be  dared  ; 

More  fit  to  practice  than  to  plan ; 
He  dearly  earns  his  poor  reward, 

And  spends  it  like  an  Irishman. 

If  poor  and  strange,  he'll  for  you  pay, 

Or  guide  to  where  you  safe  may  be  ; 
If  you're  his  comrade,  while  you  stay,  .     < 

His  cottage  holds  a  jubilee.  >  (^i[    \- 

His  very  soul  he  will  unlock,  ^/  *\?& 

And  if  he  may  your  merits  scan, 
Your  confidence  he  scorns  to  mock,  V 

For  faithful  is  an  Irishman.  <y\  K^1 


V 


> 


j6o  jane  rowley's 

By  honor  bound  in  weal  or  woe, 

Whate'er  she  bids  he  dares  tojdo, 
Try  him  with  bribe,  it  won't  prevail ; 

Put  him  in  fire,  you'll  find  him.  true. 
He  seeks  not  safety,  be  his  post 

What'er  it  may  in  clanger's  van  ; 
And  if  the  field  of  fame  be  lost, 

It  won't  be  by  an  Irishman. 

Erin's  loved  land,  from  age  to  age, 

Be  thou  more  great,  more  famed,  and'free  ; 
May  peace  be  yours,  or  should  you  wage 

Defensive  war  —  reap  victory. 
May  plenty  flow  in  every  field, 

Which  gentle  breezes  sweetly  fan, 
And  cheerful  smiles  serenely  gild 

The  breast  of  every  Irishman. 

BYRON. 

'Tis  sweet  to  hear  the  watch  dog's  honest  bark, 

Bay  deep-mouthed  welcome  as  we  draw  near  home  ; 
'Tis  sweet  to  know  there  is  an  eye  will  mark 

Our  coming,  and  look  brighter  when  we  come : 
'Tis  sweet  to  be  awakened  by  the  lark, 

Or  lull'd  by  falling  waters  ;  sweet  the  hum 
Of  bees,  the  voice  of  girls,  the  song  of  birds, 

The  lisp  of  children,  and  their  earliest  words. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  26l 

THE  GRAVE  OF  LINCOLN. 

BY    EBEN    E.    REXFORD. 

A  solemn  hush  is  in  the  air ; 

Awe  lays  her  finger  on  my  lip, 
And  nature  seems  to  bend  in  prayer 

Claiming  with  me  companionship 
In  love  and  reverence,  to-day, 

For  the  great  man  whose  grave  is  here, 
The  martyr  o'er  whose  dust  I  lay 

The  silent  tribute  of  a  tear. 

What  deep  emotions  fill  the  soul 

Beside  this  grave,  as  we  look  back 
And  see  again  the  war-cloud  roll 

Across  the  horizon,  grim  and  black. 
For  one  to  lead  them  came  the  cry  — 

It  echoes  on  our  ears  to-day  ; 
The  heart  of  Lincoln  makes  reply, 

His  words  the  mustering  millions  sway. 

I  see  the  grave  and  earnest  man, 

With  steadfast  purpose  in  his  eyes, 
Stand  facing  dangerous  times  to  scan 

With  anxious  look  the  threatening  skies. 
I  hear  him  speak,  his  words  are  brave, 

With  faith  that  God  would  show  the  way. 
He  did,  and  left  to  us  this  grave, 

From  which  he  spoke  to  us  to-day. 


262  jane  rowley's 

I  live  again  those  April  days, 

When  people  cried,  '*  Our  chief  is  dead  !  " 
And  questioned,  in  their  griefs  amaze, 

Of  who  should  lead  as  he  had  led. 
I  hear  the  nation's  bitter  cry 

Of  sorrow  for  the  man  who  fell, 
As  peace  across  the  stormy  sky 

Flashed  out  its  rainbow  miracle. 

Thy  loss  was  not  our  loss  alone, 

O  martyr'd  chieftain  true  and  tried  ; 
The  great  world  claimed  thee  as  her  own, 

With  all  a  mother's  loving  pride. 
And  many  a  heart  beyond  the  sea, 

Who  breathed  with  thee  in  freedom's  air, 
Cried  out  in  tribute  unto  thee, 

"  We  lost  our  noblest  brother  there  !  " 

Rest,  Lincoln,  with  thy  work  well  done, 

No  more  the  land  is  filled  with  strife  ; 
The  soldier  father  tells  his  son, 

In  peace,  the  lesson  of  thy  life  ; 
From  North  and  South,  men  meet  to-day. 

As  brothers,  by  thy  place  of  rest, 
The  spot  is  holy  ground,  we  say, 

The  sacred  Mecca  of  the  West. 
Springfield,  III.,  June,  1885. 


SCRAP   BOOK.  263 

THE  DAY  LILY. 

BY    NORAH    PERRY. 

Just  for  a  day,  for  a'  day, 

I  breathe  into  bloom  ; 
Just  for  a  day,  for  a  day, 

I  shed  my  perfume. 

Just  for  a  day,  for  a  day, 

"Alack  and  Alas, 
How  fleeting  and  brief  thy  stay," 

They  cry,  as  I  pass. 

But  fleeting  and  brief,  I  give 

The  wealth  of  my  soul 
Just  for  the  day  I  live, 

Without  stint  or  control. 

What  more  can  a  life  bestow 

Ere  it  passes  away, 
Than  its  all,  though  its  warmth  and  glow 

Be  but  for  a  day. 


Oh  !  Love,  how  are  thy  precious,  sweetest  minutes, 
Thus  ever  crossed,  thus  vexed  by  disappointment, 
Now  pride,  now  fickleness,  fantastic  quarrels, 
And  sullen  coldness  give  us  pain  by  turn. — Row. 


264  jane  rowley's 

THE  LANGUAGE  OF  FLOWERS. 

The  language  of  flowers  was  doubtless  known  to  the 
ancients,  and  it  would  appear  that  the  Greeks  under- 
stood the  art  of  communicating  a  secret  message  through 
the  medium  of  a  bouquet ;  at  all  events,  garlands  were 
conspicuous  among  the  emblematic  devices  of  antiquity. 

Flowers,  the  emblems  and  the  favorites  of  the  fair,  are 
not  everywhere  prized  merely  for  their  beauty  and  their 
fragrance ;  invention  has  created  from  them  symbolic 
phrases  for  expressing  the  sweet  sentiments  of  the  heart. 
This  language  is  most  generally  used  by  the  Turkish  and 
Greek  women  of  the  Levant,  and  by  the  African  females 
on  the  coast  of  Barbary.  A  nosegay  or  garland  of 
flowers,  ingeniously  selected  and  put  together  for  the 
purpose  of  communicating  in  secret  an  expressive  lan- 
guage, the  sentiments  of  the  heart,  is  in  the  Greek  called 
a  salaam  (salutation).  It  often  happens  that  a  female 
slave  corresponds  with  her  lover  merely  by  the  arrange- 
ment of  flower-pots  in  a  garden.  Written  love  letters 
would  often  be  inadequate  to  convey  an  idea  of  the  feel- 
ings which  are  thus  expressed  through  the  medium  of 
flowers.  Thus,  orange  flowers  signify  hope  ;  marigold, 
despair ;  sunflowers,  constancy ;  roses,  beauty,  and  tu- 
lips represent  the  complaints  of  infidelity. 

This  hieroglyphic  is  known  only  to  the  lover  and  his 
mistress,  in  order  to  envelop  it  the  more  completely  in 


SCRAP    BOOK.  265 

the  veil  of  secrecy  ;  the  signi'ficance'of  the  different  flow- 
ers are  changed  in  conformity  with  a  pre-concerted  plan. 
For  example  —  the  rose  is  employed  'to' .express  the  idea 
which  would  be  attached  to  the  amaranth,  the  gillyflower 
is  substituted  for  the  pomegranite  blossom. 

The  language  of  flowers  is  much  employed  in  the 
Turkish  harem,  where  the  women  practice  it  for  the 
sake  of  mere  diversion  in  their  solitude,  or  for  the  pur- 
pose of  secret  communication. 

The  following  are  some  of  the  emblematic  significa- 
tions which  have  been  attributed  to  different  flowers, 
shrubs  and  trees : 

The  Almond  Tree  signifies  indiscretion.  It  is  the 
first  of  the  trees  to  obey  the  call  of  early  spring.  Noth- 
ing can  be  more  graceful  than  this  beautiful  tree  when  it 
appears  covered  with  blossoms  when  the  surrounding 
trees  are  naked.  It  has  been  made  the  emblem  of  indis- 
cretion from  flowering  so  early  that  frost  too  often  de- 
strovs  the  precious  germs  of  its  fruit,  though,  instead  of 
injuring  its  flowers,  they  seem  to  confer  on  the  latter 
additional  beautv. 

Passion  Flower.  In  the  passion  flower  there  is  a 
representation  of  the  crown  of  thorns,  the  scourge,  the 
cross,  the  sponge,  the  nails,  and  five  wounds  of  Christ, 
whence  its  name. 

Sage,  esteem.  The  common  garden  sage  has  ever 
been  held  in  great  esteem  by  all  domestic  practitioners 


266  jane  rowley's 

for  its  medicinal  virtues.  By  the  ancients  it  was  sup- 
posed to  prolong  life  ;  hence  a  line  by  one  of  their  poets 
which  signifies — "  How  can  a  man  die  in  whose  garden 
there  grows  sage  ?  " 

Mignonette.     Your  qualities  surpass  your  charms. 

Lily  of  the  Valley.  Return  of  happiness  ;  also, 
humility. 

Peppermint.  Warmth  of  feeling.  Minthe  was  sur- 
prised by  Proserpine  in  the  company  of  her  gloomy 
spouse.  The  enraged  goddess  changed  her  rival  into  a 
plant,  which  seems  to  comprehend  in  its  double  flower 
the  coldness  of  fear  and  the  warmth  of  love.  This  plant 
we  cultivate  by  the  name  of  peppermint. 

Helenium.  Tears.  The  flowers  of  the  helenium 
resemble  small  suns  of  a  beautiful  yellow.  They  blow  in 
autumn  with  the  asters.  They  are  said  to  have  been 
produced  by  the  tears  of  Helena. 

Pine  Apple.     You  are  perfect. 

Romculus.     You  are  radiant  with  charms. 

Wormwood.  Absence.  Absence,  according  to  La 
Fontaine,  is  the  worst  of  evils.  Wormwood  is  the  bit- 
terest of  plants.  Its  name,  derived  from  the  Greek, 
signifies  without  sweetness. 

Heart's-Ease.     Think  of  me. 

Marigold  and  Cypress.  Despair.  Cypress  is  the 
emblem  of  death  ;  the  marigold  of  sorrow.     The  combi- 


SCRAP    BOOK.  267 

nation  of  the  two  expresses  despair. 

White  Violet.  Candor.  Candor  precedes  mod- 
esty. It  is  a  violet  still,  clothed  in  the  color  of  inno- 
cence. 

Violet.  Modesty.  Ion,  the  Greek  name  of  this 
flower,  is  traced  by  some  etymologist  to  Io,  the  daughter 
of  Midas,  who  was  betrothed  to  Ate,  and  changed  by 
Diana  into  a  violet,  to  hide  her  from  Apollo.  The 
beautiful  and  modest  flower  still  retains  the  bashful 
timidity  of  the  nymph,  partially  concealing  itself  amidst 
foliage  from  the  garish  gaze  of  the  sun.  Hence  it  has 
been  ingenionsly  given  as  a  device  to  an  amiable  and 
witty  lady,  of  a  timid  and  reserved  disposition,  sur- 
rounded by  the  motto. 

Ilfaut-ma-chercher.     I  must  be  sought  after. 

Daisy.  Innocence.  Fabulous  history  informs  us  that 
the  daisy  owes  its  origin  to  Belides,  one  of  the  nymphs 
called  Dryads,  who  were  supposed  to  preside  over 
meadows  and  pastures.  While  dancing  with  Ephignes, 
whose  suit  she  encouraged,  she  attracted  the  admiration 
of  Vertumnus,  the  deity  who  presides  over  orchards,  and, 
to  escape  from  him,  she  was  transformed  into  the  hum- 
ble flower,  the  Latin  name  of  which  is  Bellis. 

Narcissus  and  Daffodil.  -Self-love.  The  ancients  at- 
tribute the  origin  of  this  flower  to  the  metamorphosis  of  a 
beautiful  youth,  named  Narcissus,  who,  having  slighted 
the    love    of    the   nymph,    Echo,    became    enamored  of 


268  JANE    ROWLEY'S 

his  own  image,  which  he  beheld  in  a  fountain,  and  pined 
to  death  in  consequence.  The  Narcissus  also  is  said  to 
signify  unrequited  love. 

Hawthorn,  or  White  Thorn.  Hope.  Among  the 
Turks  a  branch  of  the  hawthorn  expresses  the  wish  of 
the  lover  to  receive  a  kiss  from  the  object  of  his  affec- 
tions. 

Tulip.     Declaration  of  love. 
White  Rose  Bud.     Too  young  to  love. 
Periwinkle.     Tender  recollections. 
Pink.     True  love.     Yellow  pink,  disdain. 
Rose.     Love. 

"         Hundred  leaved.     Grace. 

"         Monthly.     Beauty  ever  new. 

"         Musk.     Capricious  beauty. 

'•         Single.     Simplicity. 

"         White.     Silence. 

"         Withered.     Fleeting  beaut}'. 

l'         Yellow.     Infidelity. 

According  to  the  ancient  fable,  the  red  color  of  the 
rose  may  be  traced  to  Venus,  whose  delicate  foot,  when 
she  was  hastening  to  the  relief  of  her  beloved  Adonis, 
was  pierced  by  a  thorn  that  drew  blood. 

"  Which,  on  the  white  rose  being  shed, 
Made  it  forever  after  red." 


SCRAP     BOOK.  269 

The   origin  of  that  exquisitely  beautiful   variety,  the 
moss  rose,  is  thus  fancifully  accounted  for : 


"  The  angels  of  the  flowers  one  day, 
Beneath  a  rose-tree  sleeping  lay. 

The  spirit  to  whose  charge  is  given  ^       0 

To  bathe  young  buds  with  dew  from  heaven. 
Awaking  from  his  light  repose, 
The  angel  whispered  to  the  rose,  A 

'  O,  fondest  object  of  my  care,  \     I  '/A 

Still  fairest  found  where  all  is  fair, 
For  the  sweet  shade  thou'st  given  to  me, 
Ask  what  thou  wilt,  'tis  granted  thee.'  ^jJ  »  <  |f 

"  Then  said  the  rose  with  deepening  glow,  //iV* 

'  On  me  another  grace  bestow.'  -        >  ' 

The  spirit  paused  in  silent  thought.  W 

What  grace  is  there  this  flower  has  not  ? 
'Twas  but  a  moment —  o'er  the  rose 
A  veil  of  moss  the  angel  throws. 
And,  robed  in  Nature's  simplest  weed, 
Could  there  a  flower  that  rose  exceed  ? " 

Lily  —  Majesty.  According  to  the  heathen  mythology 
there  was  originally  only  one  species  of  Lily,  namely,'  the 
orange-colored  ;  and  the  white  was  produced  by  the  fol- 
lowing circumstances  : — Jupiter  being  desirous  to  render 
Hercules   immortal,  prevailed  on   Juno  to   take  a  deep 


270  jane  rowley's 

draught  of  nectar,  which  having  been  prepared  by  Som- 
nus,  threw  the  queen  of  the  gods  into  a  profound  slum- 
ber. Jupiter  took  advantage  of  this  to  place  the  infant 
Hercules  to  her  breast,  that  the  divine  milk  might  in- 
sure his  immortality.  The  infant,  in  his  eagerness,  drew 
the  milk  faster  than  he  could  swallow  it,  and  some  drops 
fell  to  the  earth,  from  which  immediately  sprang  the 
White  Lily. 

Carolina  Jasmine.     Separation. 

Thorn  Apple.  Deceitful  charms.  The  flower  of 
the  Thorn  Apple,  like  the  charms  of  nocturnal  beauties, 
droop  while  the  sun  shines  beneath  their  dull-looking 
foliage ;  but  on  the  approach  of  night,  they  revive,  dis- 
play their  charms  and  unfold  their  prodigious  bells,  which 
nature  has  covered  with  purple,  and  lined  with  ivory ; 
and  to  which  she  has  given  an  odor  that  attracts  and  in- 
toxicates, but  is  so  dangerous  as  to  stupefy  those  who  in- 
hale it  even  in  the  open  air.  The  fruit  is  equally 
poisonous. 

Myrtle.     Love. 

Honeysuckle.     Generous  and  devoted  affection. 

Broom.  Humility.  In  the  years  1,  2,  3,  4,  St.  Louis, 
of  France,  after  the  coronation  of  his  queen,  chose  the 
flower  of  this  plant  as  the  insignia  or  a  new  order  of 
knighthood.  The  members  of  this  order  were  a  chain 
composed  of  flowers  of  the  Broom,  entwined  with  white 
enamelled  lilies  from  which  was  suspended  a  gold  cross, 


SCRAP    BOOK.  271 

with  the  inscription,  "Exahalla  humules"  He  exalteth 
the  humble. 

This  plant  called  in  Latin,  Genista,  and  in  French, 
Genet,  gave  the  name  of  Plantagenet  to  the  sovereigns  of 
England  for  several  centuries.  Geoffry,  Count  of  An- 
jou,  it  is  said,  first  acquired  the  name  of  Plantagenet 
from  the  incident  of  his  wearing  a  sprig  of  Broom  on  his 
helmet  on  a  day  of  battle.  From  this  Geoffry  and 
Matilda,  or  Maud,  Empress  of  Germany  and  daughter  of 
Henry  First  of  England,  descended  all  the  Edwards  and 
Henrys. 

Another  tradition  respecting  this  illustrious  name  is, 
that  a  prince  of  the  hquse  of  Anjou  having  killed  his 
brother  to  enjoy  his  principality,  afterwards  repented, 
and  made  a  voyage  to  the  Holy  Land  to  expiate  his 
crime,  scourged  himself  with  a  rod  every  night  made 
from  the  plant  Genet,  Genista,  Broom.  Hence  the  name 
Plantagenet. 

Strawberry.     Perfection. 

St.  John's  Wort.     Superstition. 

Jasmine.     Amiableness. 

Poppy.     Consolation. 

Corn.     Riches. 

Peruvian  Heliotrope.     Devote  attachment. 

Holyhock.     Ambition. 

Sunflower.     False  riches  ;  also  constancy,  from  its 


272  jane  rowley's 

habit  of  following  the  course  of  the  sun,  a  notion  adopted 

by  the  poets,  and  not  without  reason. 

"  As  the  sunflower  turns  on  his  god,  when  he  sets, 
The  same  look  that  he  gave  when  he  rose." 

Meadow  Saffron.  Best  days  are  passed.  This 
flower  springs  up  and  blooms  amidst  the  damp  grass  of 
the  meadows  when  the  leaves  are  falling  from  the  trees, 
and  the  aspect  of  nature  betokens  decay. 

Scarlet  Geranium.     Stupidity. 

Marvel  of  Peru.     Timidity. 

Oak.     Hospitality. 

Amaranth.     Immortality. 

Dead  Leaves.     Sadness,  melancholy. 

Ivy.     Friendship. 

Mistletoe.     I  surmount  all  difficulties. 

Moss.     Maternal  love. 

Lawnstinus.     I  die  if  neglected. 

Laurel.     Glory. 

Parsley.     Festivity. 

Star  of  Bethlehem.     Divinity. 

Hop.     Injustice. 

Snap  Dragon.     Presumption. 

Rose  Scented  Geranium.     Preference. 

Walnut.  Strategem.  The  city  of  Amiens  was  taken 
by  the  Spaniards,  in  1500,  by  a  singular  stratagem.  Some 
soldiers,  disguised  as  countrymen,  came  up  to  the  gates 
with  a  cartload  of  walnuts.     Here  they  untied  one  of  the 


SCRAP    BOOK.  273 


sacks  containing  the  nuts,  the  latter  fell  out  as  soon  as 
the  gate  was  opened,  and  the  cart  began  to  move.  While 
the  guards  were  busy  picking  them  up  a  body  of  Span- 
iards, who  were  in  ambush,  fell  upon  them  and  made 
themselves  masters  of  the  city. 

Quince.     Temptation. 

London  Pride.     Frivolity. 

White  Lilac.     Youth. 

Lilac.     First  emotions  of  love. 

Iris.     Message. 

Pencilled  Leaf  Geranium.     Ingenuity. 

Dock.     Patience. 

Wild  Daisy.     I  will  think  of  it. 

China  Aster.     After-thought. 

Acacia.     Friendship. 

Plum  Tree.     Keep  your  promise. 

Sweet  William.     Finesse. 

Larkspur.     Lightness. 

Ice  Plant.     Your  looks  freeze  me. 

Grass.     Utility. 

Wild  Geranium.     Steadfast  piety. 

Garden  Daisy.     I  share  your  sentiments. 

Anemone.     Forsaken. 

Snowdrop.     Hope. 

Valerian.  Accommodating  disposition.  The  red 
Valerian  grows  naturally  on  the  rocks  of  the  Alps,  and 
from  the  facility  with  which  it  propogates  itself  in  the 


3  ;|  jane  rowley's 

garden  or  on  old  walls,  it  is  made  the  emblem  of  an  ac- 
commodating disposition. 

Thyme.  Activity.  Activity  is  a  warlike  virtue, 
associated  with  true  courage.  It  was  on  this  account  that 
ladies  of  chivalrous  times  embroidered  on  the  scarf  which 
they  presented  to  their  knights,  the  figure  of  a  bee  hover- 
ing about  a  sprig  of  Thyme,  in  order  to  recommend 
the  union  of  the  amiable  with  the  active.  Where  Thvme 
is  growing  there  is  always  a  scene  of  activity.  Flies  of 
all  shapes,  beetles  of  all  hues,  light  butterflies,  and  vigi- 
lant bees  forever  surround  its  flowery  tufts. 


PAUL  JONES. 

It  was  a  stately  Southerner  that  carried  the  Stripes  and 

Stars, 
The  whistling  wind  from  west  sou'west  blew  through  her 

pitch-pine  spars  ; 
With  her  starboard  tacks  on  board,  my  boys,  she  hung 

upon  the  gale, 
On  an  autumn  night,  as  she  raised  the  light  of  the  old 

Head  of  Kinsale. 

For  nightly  garb  our  frigate  her  three  large  topsails  wore, 
The  spanker  and  the  standing  jib,  with  courses  main  and 

fore ; 
The  swelling  seas  beneath  her  bow  in  creamy  foam  she 

spread, 


SCRAP    BOOK.  275 

And  sending  below  her  bosom  of  snow,  she  buried  her 
lee  cat-head. 

No  thought  was  there  of  shortening  sail  by  him  who  trod 

the  poop, 
Though  by  the  weigh  of  her  ponderous  jib  the  boom  bent 

like  a  hoop. 
The  groaning:  cross-trees  told  the  strain  that  carried  the 

stout  main  tack, 
But  he  only  laughed  as  he  looked  abaft  at  her  bright  and 

silvery  track. 

Now  what  is  that  on  our  larboard  bow,  that  hangs  upon 
our  lee? 

It's  time  our  good  ship  hauled  her  wind  abreast  of  the 
Saltee. 

For  by  her  ponderous  spread  of  sail,  and  by  her  taut  of 
spar, 

We  knew  that  our  morning  visitor  was  an  English  man- 
of-war. 

Then  up  spoke  our  commander,  not  a  frown  was  on  his 
brow, 

"  Quick !  lay  aloft,  my  gallant  lads,  spare  not  your  can- 
vas now  ; 

We  fly  aloft  the  Stars  and  Stripes  against  the  Royal  boast, 

Paul  Jones,  the  terror  of  the  seas,  can  whip  them  round 
their  coast. 


276  jane  rowley's 

"Loose  all  your  canvas  fore  and  aft,  loose  all  and  give 

her  sheet ; 
The  swiftest  keel  that  cuts  the  deep  in  all  the  British  fleet 
Comes  thundering  down  upon  us  with  the  white  foam  at 

his  bow, 
So  lay  aloft,  my  gallant  lads,  spare  not  the  canvas  now  ! " 
'Twas  thus  our  gallant  Captain  spoke,  and  scarce  a  mo- 
ment passed, 
When  royal  and  to'gallant  yards  were  crossed  upon  each 

mast ; 
The  British  gave  a  rousing  cheer  from~the  deck  of  their 

covered  ark, 
We  answered  them  back  with  a  scornful  shout  from  the 

deck  of  our  patriot  bark. 
The  fog  hung  heavy  on  the  deep^fromfFethardito  Carn- 

sore, 
The  mist  it  had  not  cleared  away,  but  still  obscured  the 

shore ; 
With  light  sails  set  and  booms  rigged  out,  and  stun'sls 

hoisted  away, 
Down  the  Irish  Channel  Paul  Jones^he  bore  before  the 

break  of  day. 


A  shoemaker  once  made  shoes]without*leather, 
With  the  aid  of  the  elements  all  together, 
Fire,  water,  earth  and  air, 
And  each  of  his  customers  took  two  pair. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  277 

A  NATIONAL  HYMN. 

When  this  fair  land,  by  Heaven  defended, 

Arose  to  champion  human  right, 
And,  freedom's  battle  fought  and  ended, 

Saw  Freedom's  self  enthroned  in  might, 
Around  the  world  this  song  resounded, 
While  from  each  heart  the  echo  bounded, — 
Ever  happy,  ever  free, 
Land  of  light  and  liberty. 

No  herald  for  thy  banner  blended 

Symbol  and  shield  and  curious  crest ; 
But  Heaven  herself  thy  birth  attended, 
And  bared  for  thee  her  azure  breast. 
Her  fairest  hues  thine  advent  greeted, 
And  star  by  star  the  song  repeated, — 
Ever  happy,  ever  free, 
Land  of  light  and  liberty. 

Land  of  the  mighty !  through  the  nations 

Thy  fame  shall  live  and  travel  on  ; 
And  all  succeeding  generations 

Shall  bless  the  name  of  Washington. 
While  year  by  year  new  triumphs  bringing, 
The  sons  of  Freedom  shall  be  singing, — 
Ever  happy,  ever  free, 
Land  of  light  and  liberty. 


278  jane  rowley's 

Columbus,  on  his  dauntless  mission, 

Beheld  his  lovely  isle  afar ; 
Did  he  not  see,  in  distant  vision, 

The  rising  of  this  Western  star, — 
This  queen  who  now,  in  state  befitting, 
Between  two  ocean-floods  is  sitting?  — 
Ever  happy,  ever  free, 
Land  of  light  and  liberty. 

As  sunward  still,  with  sovereign  pinion, 

The  eagle  mounts  against  the  gale, 
Against  Oppression's  proud  dominion, 
The  sword  of  Freedom  shall  prevail. 
The  grandest  theme  on  history's  pages, 
A  tower  of  strength  amid  the  ages, — 
Ever  happy,  ever  free, 
Land  of  light  and  liberty. 

Thus  fixed  on  freedom's  firm  foundations, 

To  God,  thy  fervent  thanks  upraise, 
Amid  the  world's  loud  gratulations, 

Be  truth  and  justice  still  thy  praise. 
Be  this  thy  watchword, —  Love  and  Duty. 
O  land  of  glory  !  land  of  beauty  ! 
Ever  happy,  ever  free, 
Land  of  light  and  liberty. 

H.  B. 

Morrisville,  Bucks  County,  Pa. 


SCRAP   BOOK. 


LOVE  AND  CARE. 


79 


Love  sat  in  his  bower  one  summer  clay, 

And  Care,  with  his  train,  came  to  drive  him  away  ; 

"  I  will  not  depart,"  said  Love. 
And,  seizing  his  lute,  with  silver  words, 
He  ran  his  bright  fingers  along  the  cords, 
And  played  so  sweet,  so  entrancing  an  air, 
That  a  grim  smile  lit  up  the  face  of  Care  : 

"  Away —  away  !  "  said  Love. 

"  Nay,  nay,  I  have  friends  !  "  grim  Care  replied  ; 
"  Behold,  here  is  one  —  and  his  name  is  Pride  !  " 
"  I  care  not  for  Pride  !  "  said  Love. 
Then  touching  the  strings  of  his  light  guitar, 
Pride  soon  forgot  his  lofty  air, 
And  seizing  the  hand  of  a  rustic  queen, 
Laugh'd,  gambolled,  and  tripp'd  it  o'er  the  green. 
"  Aha  —  aha  !  "  said  Love. 

"  Away  with  your  jeers  !  "    cried  Care  ;   "if  you  please  ; 
Here's  another  —  lank,  haggard,  and  pale  Disease  !  " 

"  I  care  not  for  him  !  "  said  Love. 
Then  touched  a  strain  so  plaintive  and  meek, 
That  a  flush  passed  over  his  pallid  cheek  ; 
And  Disease  leaped  up  from  his  couch  of  pain, 
And  smiled  and  re-echoed  the  healing:  strain. 

"  Well  done  for  Disease  !  "  said  Love. 


2S0  jane  rowley's 

"  Pshaw  —  pshaw  !  "  cried  Care  ;  "  this  squalid  one  see  ! 
How  likest  thou  the  guant  look  of  Poverty?" 

" 1  care  not  for  him  !  "  said  Love. 
Then  struck  such  a  sound  from  his  viol's  strings, 
That  Poverty  shouted  aloud,  "  I  am  a  king ! 
The  jewelled  wreaths  round  my  temple  shall  twine  — 
For  the  sparkling  gems  of  Golgonda  are  mine  !  " 
"  Aye,  aye  —  very  true  !  "  said  Love. 

"Nay,  boast  not,"  said  Care ;    "  there  is  fretful  old  Age. 
Beware  of  his  crutches,  and  tempt  not  his  rage  !  " 

"  I  care  not  for  Age  !  "  said  Love. 
Then  swept  the  strings  of  his  magic  lyre, 
Till  the  glazed  eye  sparkled  with  youthful  fire  ; 
And  Age  dropped  his  crutches,  and,  light  as  a  fay, 
Laugh'd  caper'd,  and  danced,  like  a  child  at  play. 

"  Bravo,  Sir  Eld  !  "  said  Love. 

"  A  truce  !  "  cried  wrinkled  Care,  "  with  thy  glee  ! 
Now  look  on  this  last  one  — 'Tis  jealousy  !  " 

"  Ah  me  !  ah  me  !  "  said  Love. 
Her  green  eye  burns  with  a  quenchless  fire  — 
"  I  die  !  I  die  !  "    Then  dropping  his  lyre, 
Love  flew  away  from  his  cherished  bower, 
And  never  returned  from  that  fatal  hour ! 
Alas,  for  the  blighted  Love  ! 


sckap  book.  a8i 

KATHLEEN  O'NIALL. 

It  was  the  eve  of  holy  Saint  Bride, 

The  abbey  bells  were  ringing, 
And  the  meek-eyed  nuns  at  eventide 

The  vesper  hymns  were  singing. 

Alone,  by  the  well  of  good  Saint  Bride, 

A  novice  fair  was  kneeling  : 
And  there  seemed  not  o'er  her  soul  to  glide, 

One  "  stain  of  earthly  feeling." 

For  ne'er  did  that  clear  and  sainted  well, 

Reflect  from  its  crystal  water, 
A  form  more  fair  than  the  shadow  that  fell 

From  O'Niall's  lovely  daughter. 

Her  eyes  were  bright  as  the  blue  concave, 

And  beaming  with  devotion  : 
Her  bosom  fair  as  the  foam  on  the  wave 

Of  Erin's  rolling  ocean. 

Yet  oh  !  forgive  her  that  starting  tear  ; 

From  home  and  kindred  riven, 
Fair  Kathleen,  many  a  long,  long  year, 

Must  be  the  bride  of  heaven. 

Her  beads  were  told  and  the  moonbeams  shone 

Sweetly  on  Callen  water  : 
When  her  path  was  crossed  by  a  holy  nun, 

Benedict  fair  daughter. 


282  jane  rowley's 

Fair  Kathleen  started.    Ah  !  well  did  she  know  — 

Oh  !  what  will  not  love  discover? 
The  country's  scourge,  and  her  father's  foe, 

'Twas  the  voice  of  her  Saxon  lover. 

"  Raymond  !  "  "  Oh  !  hush,  my  Kathleen,  dear. 
My  path  is  beset  with  danger, 
But  cast  not,  love,  those  looks  of  fear 
Upon  thy  dark-haired  stranger. 

"  My  red  roan  steed's  in  yon  culdee  grove ; 
My  bark  is  out  at  sea,  love  ; 
My  boat  is  moor'd  in  the  ocean,  love, 
Then  haste  away  with  me,  love. 

' '  My  father  has  sworn  my  hand  shall  be 
To  Sidney's  daughter  given, 
And  thine  to-morrow  will  offer  thee 
A  sacrifice  to  heaven. 

"  But  away,  my  love,  away  with  me, 
The  breeze  to  the  west  is  blowing  ; 
And  thither  across  the  dark  blue  sea, 
Are  England's  bravest  going, 

"  To  a  land  where  the  breeze  from  the  orange  bowers 
Comes  o'er  the  exile's  sorrow  ; 
Like  the  light-winged  dreams  of  his  early  hours 
Or  his  hope  of  a  happier  morrow. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  283 

"  And  there  in  some  valley's  loneliness, 
By  wood  and  mountain  shaded, 
We'll  live  in  the  light  of  wedded  bliss, 
Till  the  lamp  of  life  be  faded. 

"  Then  thither  with  me,  my  Kathleen,  fly, 
The  storms  of  life  we'll  weather, 
Till  in  bliss  beneath  the  western  sky, 
We'll  live,  love, —  die  together." 

"  Die,  Saxon,  now  !  "  at  that  fiend-like  yell, 
A  hundred  swords  are  gleaming  ; 
Down  the  bubbling  stream,  from  the  tainted  well, 
His  heart's  best  blood  is  streaming. 

In  vain  he  doffed  his  hood  so  white, 

In  vain  his  falchion  flashing  ; 
Five  monkish  brands  through  his  corslet  bright, 

Within  his  heart  are  clashing. 

His  last  groan  echoing  through  the  grove, 

His  life  blood  on  the  waters, 
He  dies  —  thy  first,  and  thy  only  love, 

O'Niall's  hapless  daughter. 

Vain,  vain,  was  the  shield  of  that  breast  of  snow  ; 

In  vain  that  eye  beseeched  them  ; 
Through  his  Kathleen's  heart,  the  murderous  blow 

Too  deadly  aimed  had  reached  him. 


284  jane    rowley's 

The  spirit  fled  with  the  red,  red  blood 

Fast  gushing  from  her  bosom  ; 
The  blast  of  death  has  blighted  the  bud 

Of  Erin's  loveliest  blossom. 

'Tis  morn,  in  the  deepest  doubt  and  dread, 

The  gloomy  hours  are  rolling  ; 
No  sound  save  the  requiem  for  the  dead, 

Or  knell  from  the  death  bell  tolling-. 

'Tis  dead  of  night ;  not  a  sound  is  heard, 
Save  from  the  night  wind  sighing, 

Or  the  mournful  moan  of  the  midnight  bird, 
To  yon  pale  planet  crying. 

Who  names  the  name  of  his  murdered  child  ? 

What  spears  to  the  moon  are  glancing? 
'Tis  the  vengeful  cry  of  Shane  Dymas,  wild, 

His  Bounacht  men  advancing. 

Saw  ye  that  smoke  on  the  moonlight  last, 

Fire  from  its  darkness  gleaming? 
Heard  ye  that  cry  in  the  moonlight  blast, 

The  voice  of  terror  shrieking? 

(Tis  the  fire  from  Ardsallach's  *  willow'd  height, 

Tower  and  temple  paling  ; 
'Tis  the  groan  of  death,  and  the  cry  of  fright, 

From  monks,  for  mercy  calling. 
•The  height  of  Willows.    The  ancient  name  of  Armagh. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  285 

On  being  playfully  asked  by  two  pretty  girls  which 
one  he  should  prefer,  if  he  were  going  to  make  a  choice : 

"  How  happy  could  I  be  with  either,"  was  said, 

By  Macheath,  to  his  two  wives  in  the  play ; 
But  were  two  such  "  charmers"  as  you  in  their  stead, 

He  could  not  wish  either  away. 
Oh  no  !  until  death  with  such  angels  he'd  grapple  — 

They  both  are  so  temptingly  fair  ; 
That  as  Adam  lost  heaven  by  eating  an  apple, 

I'd  forfeit  my  chance  for  a  pair. 

Beautiful  Extract. —  Helping  a  handsome  young 
lady  out  of  a  mud  puddle. 

"  I'm  a  tickler  friend  to  you,"  as  the  snuff  said  to  the 
nose.  "I  shall  be  glad  to  hear  from  you  at  any  time," 
as  the  deaf  man  said  to  the  trumpet.  "Let  me  collect 
myself,"  as  the  man  said  when  he  was  blown  up  by  the 
powder  mill.  ''Loaded  with  slugs,"  as  the  gardener 
said  to  the  cauliflower. 


A  country  gentleman's  answer  to  a  lady  who  sent  her  compliments 
on  the  ten  of  hearts. 

Your  compliments,  dear  lady,  pray  forbear, 
Old  English  services  are  more  sincere  ; 
You  sent  ten  hearts,  thy  tithe  is  only  one, 
Give  me  but  one,  and  burn  the  other  nine. 


286  jane  rowley's 

THE  ROSE. 
A  i-ose  dropped  from  her  bosom, 

And  he  caught  it  as  it  fell ; 
Was  there  no  tale  that  to  his  heart, 

That  drooping  rose  could  tell  ? 
Did  he  not  look  upon  her  cheek, 

And  see  one  fading  there, 
That  once  had  worn  as  deep  a  blush, 

And  looked  as  young  and  fair  ? 


And  when  her  small  and  trembling  hand 

Replaced  the  proffered  flower, 
O'er  the  bright  haven  of  her  brow, 

Did  no  dark  shadow  lower? 
Started  no  tear  in  her  full  eye, 

Heaved  not  her  virgin  breast? 
Gushed  there  no  feeling  on  her  heart, 

To  speak  it  ill  at  rest? 

And  when  he  has  left  her  there, 

And  taken  another's  hand, 
And  led  her  out  to  move  with  him 

Amidst  that  mirthful  band, 
Must  he  not  feel  that  his  neglect 

Has  touched  her  to  the  core  ? 
And  from  her  heart-fount  turned  away 

Joy's  tide  for  ever  more  ? 


SCRAP    BOOK.  2S7 

This  incident  upon  which  the  above  song  is  founded, 
was  at  the  time  at  which  it  occurred,  the  subject  of  fash- 
ionable remark.  The  Hon.  Mr.  R.,  a  professed  roue, 
and  a  character  in  more  than  one  celebrated  novel,  had 

made  considerable  progress  in  the  affections  of  Lad}7 

when  some  other  object  attracted  his  attention,  and  he 
suddenly  neglected  her.  On  the  occasion  alluded  to,  the 
young  lady  was  crossing  the  room  to  speak  to  a  friend, 
when  she  unwittingly  dropped  a  rose  which  she  wore  at 
her  bosom,  and  R.,  who  was  passing  at  the  time,  picked 
it  up,  and  presented  it  with  his  usual  inimitable  sang  froid. 
Lady could  hardly  conceal  her  emotion. 

Against  the  Will. —  Nothing  is  ever  done  in  the 
best  manner  that  is  done  without  delight.  The  self- 
denial  that  is  performed  as  a  burdensome  duty  is  far  less 
valuable,  for  its  life  and  spirit  are  crushed  out.  The 
stranger  who  takes  charge  of  a  child  may  rigorously 
compel  himself  to  undergo  whatever  self-denial  he  thinks 
necessary  to  the  child's  welfare  ;  but  let  the  mother  come, 
with  her  full,  loving  heart,  and  the  sacrifice  she  makes 
for  its  good,  without  a  shade  of  regret  or  hesitation,  will 
outweigh  a  hundred  times  in  real  effectiveness  the 
heaviest  self-imposed  burdens  of  the  other.  The  same 
is  true  of  ever}-  kind  of  labor  and  in  every  relation  of 
life.  

Despair  is  the  shroud  of  hope.  When  hope  dies  all 
is  desolation;  — the  mind  is  a  sepulchre,  the  world  is  a 
desolate  waste. 


288  jane  rowley's. 

IF  TO  LOVE  THEE  IN  SILENCE. 

If  to  love  thee  in  silence,  in  gloom,  and  in  sadness 

Be  love  that  has  charms  for  a  spirit  like  thine, 
Oh  !  give  the  world  all  thy  spring-time  of  gladness. 

For  joy  is  no  lure  to  a  passion  like  mine. 
I  wish  not,  I  ask  not,  to  share  in  the  hour 

When  thy  soul  flashes  forth  its  most  eloquent  gleams, 
Give  me  but  the  moment  when  feeling  has  power, 

And  the  heart  can  recall  all  its  earliest  dreams. 

Oh  !  then  be  the  world's  while  its  pleasures  can  charm 
thee, 

And  wit's  meteor  flashes  illumine  thy  way  ; 
But  be  mine  when  the  glow  of  affection  can  warm  thee, 

And  spread  o'er  thy  spirit  a  kindlier  ray. 
Let  others  rejoice  in  the  halo  around  thee, 

The  bright  beams  of  fame  that  are  over  thee  cast ; 
I  ask  but  to  know  that  the  chain  which  has  bound  thee 

So  fondly  to  me,  will  cling  on  to  the  last. 


A  man  should  neither  be  a  hermit,  nor  a  buflbon. 
Human  nature  is  not  so  miserable  as  that  we  should  be 
always  melancholy ;  nor  so  happy  that  we  should  be 
always  merry.  In  a  word,  a  man  should  not  live  as  if 
there  was  no  God  in  the  world ;  nor,  at  the  same  time, 
as  if  there  were  no  men  in  it. 


SCRAP    BOOK.  289 

KITTY'S  PRAYER. 

BY    THE    AUTHOR    OF    "JOHN    JERNINGHAM's    JOURNAL." 

"  The  misthress  is  dyin'  the  docthors  have  said  so, 

Och,  who'd  be  a  docthor,  to  bring  us  our  deaths? 
To  sit  by  our  beds,  with  a  hand  on  the  head  so, 

A  feelin'  the  pulses,  an'  countin'  the  breaths  ! 
To  drive  to  our  doors  in  a  vehicle  stately, 

Outstretchin'  a  hand  for  a  fee  on  the  sly, 
To  settle  our  deaths  for  us  very  complately, 

An'  very  contintedly  leave  us  to  die  ! 

"  The  misthress  is  dyin' — it  is  such  a  pity — 

The  master  just  worships  the  ground  'neath  her  tread, 
She's  such  a  swate  crathur,  so  smilin'  and  pretty  — 

Is  there  no  cross  ould  woman  could  go  in  her  stead  ? 
She  trates  us  so  kindly,  we  think  it  an  honor 

To  lain  from  herself  her  own  ilegant  ways. 
I  lov'd  her  the  minit  I  set  my  eyes  on  her, 

An'  what  will  I  do  whin  she's  dead,  if  you  plase? 

"  I  hate  our  fine  docthor !  he  ought  to  be  cryin' 

But  smil'd  as  he  ran  to  his  carriage  and  book, 
Jist  afther  he  told  us  the  darlint  was  dyin' — 

Sure  if  she  recovered  how  quare  he  would  look. 
I  know  he's  a  janius  —  the  best  in  the  city  — 

But  God's  above  all  —  even  docthors  —  who  knows? 
I  am  but  a  poor  little  sarvint,"  says  Kitty, 

"  But  even  a  sarvint  can  pray,  I  suppose." 


f       /^       r    *    ( 


•J 


39O  JANE    ROWLEYS 

So,  down  on  her  knees  in  a  whirl  of  emotion, 

With  anger  and  grief  in  a  terrible  swin<j, 
Her  Irish  tongue  praying  with  utter  devotion, 

In  faith  that  but  few  to  their  praying  can  bring, 
The  poor  little  servant  —  her  tears  flowing  over  — 

Implor'd  with  a  force  that  my  verse  cannot  give, 
With  the  zeal  of  a  saint  and  the  glow  of  a  lover, 

That,  in  spite  of  the  doctor,  the  mistress  might  live. 

The  master  sat  close  by  his  darling,  despair  in 

His  stupefied  sorrow,  just  holding  her  hand  — 
He  prayed,  to  be  sure,  but  no  hope  has  his  prayer  in, 

In  fact,  he  was  dazed,  and  could  scarce  understand. 
Her  delicate  lips  had  a  painful  contraction, 

Her  sensitive  eyes  seemed  sunken  and  glazed  ; 
He  knew  in  his  heart  there  could  be  no  reaction, 

He  just  sat  and  saw  her  —  in  fact  he  was  dazed. 

A  pallor  less  ghastly  —  the  eyelashes  quiver  — 

Life  springs  to  the  face  in  a  sudden  surprise  — 
Grim  death  retrogrades,  with  a  sad  little  shiver  — 

She  smiles  at  the  master,  her  soul  in  her  eyes ! 
A  wonderful  hope  —  is  it  hope?  is  it  terror? 

Leaps  up  in  his  heart  while  he  watches  his  wife  — 
Is  it  life  before  death?  is  it  fancy's  sweet  error? 

Or  is  it  — or  can  it  be  —  verily  Life? 

Oh,  send  for  the  doctor  —  death  hangs  on  each  minute- 
They  wait  for  his  fiat,  as  that  of  a  god  — 


SCRAP    BOOK.  29I 

Who  sagely  remarks  that  there  is  something  in  it, 
Granting  leases  of  life  with  an  autocrat's  nod. 

Joy  rings  through  the  house  that  was  silent  in  sadness  ; 
The  master  believes  that  he  ne'er  felt  despair, 

And  Kitty,  the  servant,  laughs  out,  mid  her  gladness, 
To  think  that  they  none  of  them  knew  of  her  prayer. 


THE  VOW  OF  TELL. 

The  tyrant  holds  my  house  in  thrall, 
The  tyrant  is  a  crushing  might ; 

His  chains  are  tightened  round  us  all, 
And  while  in  rage  their  links  we  bite, 

We  brook  the  coward  despot's  scoff 
Nor  dare  to  knock  our  fetters  off. 

My  country's  hills  rise  free  to  heaven, 
Their  stately  tops  look  freedom  down  — 

A  spirit  and  a  hope  is  given 

To  struggling  freemen  in  their  frown  ; 

Say,  shall  those  stern  dictators  be, 
The  witnesses  of  slavery  ? 

No  !  high  as  points  their  boldest  heights 

I  feel  my  charring  spirits  rise  ; 
The  wish,  the  strength  —  to  meet,  to  smite, 

My  country's  ruthless  enemies, 
Swells  at  my  heart  and  nerves  my  hand 

Against  the  foes  of  Switzerland. 


292  JANE    ROWLEY  S 

Come  brothers,  rouse,  and  wreck  your  wrong, 
Upon  the  wronger  and  his  crew  ; 

Up  round  the  lighted  banner  throng, 
And  do  what  patriots  ought  to  do. 

What!  no  response — has  chains  and  fear, 
Left  none  but  me  to  battle  here  ? 

Left  none  but  me  !  and  how  could  I 

Beat  back  the  brunt  of  thousand  spears? 

Could  one  against  a  myriad  cope, 
With  aught  of  glory  or  of  hope  ? 

But  why  the  chances  thus  debate  ? 
Why  longer  from  the  strife  refrain  ? 

W^hen  country  calls  who'd  basely  wait  ? 

The  patriot's  duty  still  is  plain  — 
To  stand  determined  at  his  post, 

Or  by  himself  or  with  a  host, 
"  A  single  soul  may  stir  a  crowd  !  " 

And  light  their  courage  from  its  own  — 
A  single  voice  may  not  be  loud, 

Yet  give  to  million  tongues  a  tone  — 
A  single  spark  has  fired  a  wood 

And  one  may  rouse  a  multitude. 

'Tis  still  the  daring  of  the  one, 

That  gives  the  many  hearts  to  dare, 
Each  gazing  at  a  glory  won 


SCRAP    BOOK.  293 

Grows  eager  of  its  light  to  share, 
And  thus,  each  rouses  each,  till  all 
Are  ready,  strong  for  freedom's  call. 

Then  I'll  begin,  or  live,  or  die  — 

What's  life  if  not  with  freedom  blest? 

What's  death?  —  a  glorious  path  to  fly 
From  servitude  and  slaves  to  rest. 

Failure  can  me,  me  only  pain  — 
Success  will  be  a  nation's  gain. 

Now  by  my  highest  hopes  I  vow, 

That  while  I  hold,  or  life,  or  brand, 
No  heir  of  me  or  mine  shall  bow, 

To  tyrant  in  my  native  land, 
Nor  to  the  foe  shall  quiet  be 

Till  I  am  crushed,  or  mv  countrv  free. 

I.  W.  L. 


THE  COVENANTER'S  SON. 

Young  Allen  of  the  Highlands,  my  brother  dear  is  gone, 
And  dreary,  through  the  long,  long  night,  I  sit  and  weep 

alone  ; 
My  fancy  hears  his  spirit  voice,  within  the  twilight  dim, 
And  sleep  brings  but  an  aching  dream  of  days  gone  by, 

and  him. 
Of  him,  and  of  that  fearful  hour  when  from  our  own  fire- 
side, 


294  JANE    ROWLEY  S 

And  from  the  Bible  where  he  knelt  to  seek  his  soul's  true 

guide, 
They  dragged  my  brother  forth  to  death  —  to  death  —  as 

'twas  a  crime 
To  worship  as  our  fathers,  in  the  Covenanter's  time  ! 

My  mother  shrieked  —  her  woe  was  wild  —  she  clasped 

their  cruel  knees, 
But  tears,  nor  yet  her  sad  gray  hairs,  might  plead  with 

men  like  these  ; 
They  dragged  him  to  the  lonely    moor,  that    dark  and 

dreadful  night, 
And  slew  him  there,  amidst  our  cries  and  prayers,  before 

our  sight. 
I  saw  him  kneel,  in  manly  bloom,  their  deadly  guns  be- 
fore— 
I  clasped  him  in  my  arms  a  corpse,  all  cold,  and  red  with 

gore, 
They  left  me  to  my  misery — like  slaves  of   guilt  they  fled, 
With  the  curse  of  Heaven,  and  the  brand  of  Cain    upon 

their  head. 

My  mother  like  one  half  deranged,  lay  moaning  wild  and 

deep, 
And  gazing  on  the  corpse — that  gaze  had  made  a  fiend  to 

weep ; 
I  would  have  whisper'd  comfort,  had  not  anguish  stopped 

my  breath  ; 


SCRAP    BOOK.  295 

I  would    have  pray'd   but  all    my  words  burst  forth  in 

shrieks  of  death. 
We  buried  him  in  secret,  and  in  secret  wept  him  dead  ; 
But  from  that  night  my  mother  pined,  and  never  left  her 

bed, 
I  toil  for  food  from  morn  to  eve,  and  soothe  her  as  I  may, 
But  what  can  heal  a  broken  heart,  recall  the  mind's  lost 

ray? 

And  he,  the  truest,  best  of  friends,  young  Bruce  of  Ron- 

edell, 
Hath  sued  me  to  become  his  bride  —  and,  oh!    I  love 

him  well ; 
But  never  will  I  quit  thy  side —  no,  no  !  my  mother  dear, 
Thougfh  he  should  choose  another,  some  lovelier  bride, 

and  leave  me  here  ! 
Some  happier  one  who  loves  him  more,  but  that  could 

never  be, 
Oh,  if,  if, —  I  should  lose  my  love,  my  mother  dear,  for 

thee  — 
If  coldly  he  should  turn  away,  and  other  maiden  wed, 
Then,  mother  let  me  die  with  thee  —  thy  grave  my  bridal 

bed. 

Calumny  is  like  the  wasp,  that  teases,  and  against 
which  you  must  not  attempt  to  defend  yourself  unless 
you  are  certain  to  destroy  it,  otherwise  it  returns  to  the 
charge  more  furious  than  before. 


2g6  jane  rowley's 

The  World  —  The  little  I  have  seen  of  the  world 
teaches  me  to  look  upon  the  errors  of  others  in  sorrow, 
not  in  anger.  When  I  take  the  history  of  one  poor  heart 
that  has  sinned  and  suffered,  and  represent  to  myself  the 
struggles  and  temptations  it  has  passed  through ;  the 
feverish  inquietude  of  hope  and  fear;  the  pressure  of 
want ;  the  desertion  of  friends  ;  I  would  fain  leave  the 
erring  soul  of  my  fellow-man  with  Him  from  whom  it 
came. —  Longfellow. 

THE  OATH. 
"Do  you,"  said  Emma,  t'other  day, 
"In  earnest,  love  me,  as  you  say, 

Or  are  those  tender  words  applied, 

Alike  to  fifty  girls  beside?" 
"Dear  cruel  girl,  cruel  I  forbear, 

For  by  these  cherry  Ups  I  swear  "  — 

She  stopped  me,  as  the  oath  I  took, 

And  said  —  "  You've  sworn  — so  kiss  the  book  !  " 

What  a  Friend  Ought  to  be. —  May  my  friend 
never  express,  even  by  a  glance,  more  interest  in  me  than 
he  really  feels,  still  worse  would  it  be,  if,  from  a  mistaken 
spirit  of  kindness  he  should  forbear  to  dissent  from  my 
opinions  or  practice.  God  forbid,  that  when  I  look  to 
friendship  as  a  firm  rock  to  sustain  me  in  any  given 
emergency,  I  should  find  nothing  but  a  mask  of  conces- 
sion. Better  a  nettle  in  the  side  of  my  friend,  than  to 
be  merely  his  echo. —  Emerson. 


INDEX. 


Page 


Page 


Adam's  Sleep 

40 

Breath 

207 

Adieu 

34 

Bright  Silver  Lily 

97 

Affectation 

125 

Byron 

260 

Affection 

66,  75 

Calumny 

295 

Against  the  Will 

287 

Canteen 

32 

Age 

129 

Caprice 

89 

Allen  A'Dale 

189 

Cat 

109 

Ambition 

167 

Character 

214 

An  Exile's  Song 

111 

Charity                             205, 

207 

Arab  Maxims 

116 

Children                            144 

250 

Aspen 

194 

Choral  Workman's  Song 

77 

At  the  Tomb 

100 

Circassian  Slave 

35 

Baronet's  Telescope 

18 

"  Come  " 

81 

Beautiful  Extract 

285 

Conscience 

248 

Beautiful  Reflection 

146 

Coon  Hnnting 

54 

Beauty 

21 

Covenanter's  Son 

293 

Be  Brave 

108 

Countenance 

126 

Beecher,  Henry  Ward 

221 

Courage  in  Woman 

33 

Bells  of  Shandon 

149 

Cultivation  of  Woman's  Mind 

Benevolence 

14 

Dav  Lily 

263 

Better  Late  than  Never 

52 

Death 

115 

Bigotry 

203 

Death's  Final  Conquest 

249 

Bivouac  of  the  Dead 

154 

Debt 

162 

Blacksmith  Interviewed 

103 

Decoration  Day 

159 

Blush 

203 

Despair 

287 

Book 

251 

Discontent 

153 

Bride's  Father 

7 

Discord 

117 

Bravery 

60 

Domestic  Etiquette 

127 

2C,S 


INDEX. 


Page 

Dying  Flowers  46 

Eastern  Woman  212 

Endnre  Hardships  192 

Envy  195 
Elegance  does  not  Make  a 

Home  147 

Epistle  to  a  Young  Friend  120 

Eric  and  Axel  106 


Evil  Speaking 


153 


Faith,  Hope  and  Charity  205 
"  Fare  Thee  Well  "  57 
Fault  Finding  236 
Fearful  Man  226 
Female  Purity  190 
Female  Virtue,  etc.  124 
First  Love  55 
Flattery  198 
Flowers  115 
Forge  180 
Freedom  14 
Friend  183 
Friendship  66,  92,  156,  162,  210 
From  Good  Housekeeping  168 
From  Moore's  Sacred  Songs  60 
Front  and  Side  Doors  151 
Funeral  of  Napoleon  47 
Gentle  Words  199 
Give  me  the  Hand  191 
Gladstone  245 
"  God  Save  Liberty  "  186 
Good  Advice  203 
Good  Breeding  129 
Good  Book  and  a  Good  wo- 
man 164 
Good  Education  210 
Good  Name  74 
Good  Wife  138 
Gougana  Barra  201 
Grattan  138 
Grave  of  Burns  230 
Grave  of  Lincoln  261 
Graves  of  a  Household  26 
Great  Varieties  172 
Guardian  Angel  55 


Page 

Happiness  91,  253 

Harp  of  O'Carolan  184 

Heart  175 

"  Heart  that  Loves  Not "  123 

Holy  Life  74 
Home                     49,  59,  115,  165 

Home  Music  165 

Home,  Sweet  Home  254 

Honor  to  Bergh  93 

Hope  140 

Human  Understanding  192 

How  to  Talk  Well  183 

I'd  Be  a  Butterfly  98 

If  to  Love  Thee  in  Silence  288 
I  Love  Her,  How  I  Love  Her  25 

In  a  Railway  Car  241 

Independence  79 

Independent  163 

Indolence  6 

Influence  208 

Ingratitude  253 
"  I  Remember,  I  Remember  "  119 

Irishman  259 
It  Spoils  a  Man  to  Marry 

Him  20 

Ivy  224 

Jealousy  24 

Kathleen  O'Niall  281 

Keeping  His  Word  141 

Kindness  112 

Kind  Words  203 

Kitty's  Prayer  289 

Labor  182 

"  Land  that  We  Left,"  etc.  134 

Language  of  Flowers  264 

Lawyer  207 

Life  109 

Life's  Combats  207 

Light  and  Flowers  56 

Lines  on  a  Skull  139 
Lines  Written  Upon  Seeing 

Mulvaney's  Picture  42 

Little  Minds  23 


INDEX. 


299 


Pagk 

Little  Things  55 

Living  76 

Long  Years  Have  Passed  15 

Looks  and  Tones,  86 

Love  135,  187,  236,  263 


<N 


N 


b 


V 


\ 


His 


Love  and  Care 
Loves  of  the  Plants 
Man 

Man  and  His  Maker 
Man  I  Love 
Manly  Qualities 
Man  Must  Rule  Himself 
Mary  MaChree 
Mariner's  Farewell  to 
Ship 

Matrimony 
Memory  of  the  Dead 
Mirth 
Modesty 

"Moll"    Pitcher   at    Mon 
mouth 

Money 

Money  Question 

Moralities 

Morn's  Offering 

Music  and  Song 

My  Native  Land 

Napoleon's  Grave 

National  Hvmn 

Night  Walker 

Noble  Souls 

No  Letters 

Nothing  is  Lost 

Oak  Tree 

Oath 

Oh !  Fly  to  the  Hills 

Oh !  the  Shamrock 

Old  Enough 

Only  a  Dog 

On  the   Rhine's   Returning 

into  Germany  78 

Our  Actions  192 

Paddy's  Excelsior  136 


279 

209 

288 

51 

13 

174 

256 

44 

27 

46 

18 

172 

60 

216 

145,  176 

161 

193 

16 
247 

46 
196 
277 

61 
125 

85 

38 
229 

29 
188 
257 

91 
94,  158 


Page 

"  Papa  What   is    a   News- 
paper ?"  30  " 
Parrot  41 
Parting  Song  130 
Patience  153 
Patriot's  Last  Appeal  166 
Paul  Jones  274" 
Peep  at  tbe  Public  Man  206 
People  will  Talk  88 
Perfume  of  a  Flower  153 
Phillips,  Wendell  243 
Plea  for  the  Dove  80 
Pleasures  of  Hope,  extract 

from  251 
Poetry  5,  76 
Pole's  Adieu  6 
Politeness  40, 215 
Prayers  I  Don't  Like  110 
Prodigals  167,  207 
Pure  Benevolence  234 
Quarrels  239 
Receipt  for  Cooking  Hus- 
bands 255 
Recommended  to  the  Atten- 
tion of  M.  136 
Recreation  44 
Reform  145 
Renunciation  119 
Reputation  and  Life  246 
Respectability  175 
Responsibility  of  Manhood  96 
Retrospection  24 
Rivals  11 
Rose  286 
Rural  Felicity  207 
St.  Patrick  [.  240 
Scatter  the  Gems  of  the  Beau- 
tiful A  69 
Sea  157 
Secret  129 
Shakespeare's  Epitaph  197 
Sheridan's  Ride  67 
Shipwreck  169 
Shoemaker  276 


3°° 


INDEX. 


Page 


Silence 

9 

Simile 

169 

Simplicity  of  Dress 

82 

Sin 

187 

Sincerity 

164 

Small  Courtesies 

172 

Snow 

34 

Somebody's  Mother 

170 

Song  29,  49,  53,  87,  99,  148,  215 
Song  for  Boys  125 
Sonnets  23 
Sound  Doctrine  112 
Span  of  Life  124 
Spirit  Guide  252 
Stanza  21,  211 
Star  of  My  Home  238 
Star  Spangled  Banner  163 
Stranger's  Heart  198 
Street  Arab  71 
Sublime  Truth  82 
Success  in  Life  233 
Swarm  of  B's  Worth  Having  102 
Sympathy  237 
Ten  Harts  285 
Thought,  A  12 
Three  Different  Things  147 
Time  144 
'Tis  Sweet  to  Love  in  Child- 
hood 8 

To 39 

To  the  Violet  28 
To  Thine  Own  Self  Be  True    248 

Traducer  146 

Tranquility  126 

Trifles  5,  112 


Pagb 

Trooper  to  His  Mare  200 

True  Love  141 

Truth                           43,  126,  145 

Tsar  Oleg  23U^ 

"  Turn  Out "  75 

Two  Charmers  285 

Two  Flags  131 
Uncle    Tom's     Glimpse    of 

Glory  92 

Vase  256 

Value  of  Time  129 

Vanity  46 

Vow  of  Tell    .  291   — ■ 

We  Meet  in  Crowds  197 

We  Might  Have  Been  204 
What  a  Friend  Ought  to  Be   296 

What  is  Hope  225 

What  is  Love  24 

What  Might  Have  Been  227 

When  I  am  Dead  178 

Will  Watch  113 

Wish  56 
Woman                        10,  73,  190 

Woman — a  Dialogue  63 

Woman's  Ability  to  Act  162 

Woman's  Fate  173 

Woman's  Influence  9,  37 

Woman's  Love  19 

Woman's  Question  83 

Women  in  Conversation  105 

Work  79 

World  250,  296 

Worth  Knowing  214 

Written  bv  the  Seaside  235 

Yes  and  No  205 


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